A Sea of Golden Sand
by Andi Horton
Summary: Rabadash comes to Cair Paravel to seek Queen Susan's hand. It is only once she is in Calormen that Susan sees him for what he really is, and when the Narnians flee, Rabadash is determined they will not get off that lightly . . .
1. Commonly Known as Setting the Scene

A Sea of Golden Sand

or

The Courtship of Queen Susan

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What is Commonly Known as Setting the Scene

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Perhaps you have heard at some point the wonderful story that has been told all over Narnia; of how the High King Peter and his noble brother and lovely sisters came by magic to that kingdom in Narnia's time of greatest need, defeated the White Witch and were crowned by the great Lion Aslan. If you have not, you must take your teachers to task for failing to provide you with some excellent reading.

If, however, you are fortunate enough to have already heard the story then you will have the advantage, because you will know that the reign of King Peter, Queen Susan, King Edmund and Queen Lucy was known throughout Narnia as the Golden Age, and that Narnia was never a happier, more prosperous country than when the four kings and queens sat on the four thrones at Cair Paravel. This is not to say that Narnia did not have its share of troubles during that time, but it is to say that those troubles were never so well matched with times of peace and prosperity; nor were Narnians ever better governed than they were by those four great rulers.

Peter the High King was known for his nobility, his generosity, and his skill at battle. If ever the man had any fault, it was his desire to protect his kingdom and his beloved family ahead of himself. No Narnian could ever doubt that King Peter's first and last concern was the welfare of the kingdom he was proud to call his home.

His brother, King Edmund, had overcome a terrible thing in his past to become a wise and just ruler as well, and could always be relied upon to hear the case of any man who thought himself wrongly accused. No Narnian with any complaint was ever turned away from his throne, and King Edmund would have preferred to own no other fame than that of Narnia's most even-handed monarch.

Their sisters, Queen Lucy and Queen Susan, were as alike as day and night with all the loveliness of both. Merry, fair-haired Queen Lucy was the first to take up any challenge and loathed nothing so much as she did sitting still. Her laugh and her dimples were infectious and all the lords of her own land sought her for their bride, to her great amusement and delight.

Raven-haired Queen Susan was as soft and graceful as the moonlight on the sparkling seas. She was of a gentler and more guarded spirit than her younger sister; more reluctant to reveal her heart's meditations to those around her, and careful to conceal a small measure of steely, inner strength beneath a much softer gentility. Her grace and beauty drew suitors from distant, exotic lands to fight for her hand.

Nothing amused the two Kings so much as the sight of their sisters' bewilderment at these offers of marriage; as long as they had ruled Narnia there had been men offering for the queens, first for Susan alone but later for Lucy as well. It isn't the sort of thing that should surprise monarchs, since marriage is a very common political stratagem in Narnia and the countries around it, but the queens had not been born to such things so it took them longer to grow used to it. While over time they did learn how to gracefully turn down noble men of all shapes, sizes and motives, their amazement at the numbers of suitors never completely faded, and neither did the amusement of their brothers.

It was for one of these suitors that the kings and queens were waiting on a lovely day in early summer. This particular prince who desired Susan for his bride had already sent a party of ambassadors to treat for her hand, even before he had seen her (but this is the way these things are often arranged, so Susan had not thought the worse of him for it). Though the ambassadors had been a sour lot ("a troupe of travelling monkeys," Lucy had said, perhaps more spitefully than she had cause, but fortunately none of them had heard her) but they had not been in any way underhanded. Indeed, they had made every effort to be pleasant and obliging, so with Susan's consent Peter had extended an invitation to the prince himself, and it was for he that they waited now.

They were not, however, waiting in any great degree of state; indeed, any person passing by might not even have taken them for kings and queens, were it not for the simple beaten-gold and silver crowns they wore. They were stretched out on a rolling green lawn within the grounds of their castle, Cair Paravel, enjoying the cheerful glow of the past-midday sun. King Edmund was reading a book he had found in the castle library, King Peter and Queen Susan were playing a word game Queen Susan had invented, and Queen Lucy was making the longest daisy chain any of them had ever seen.

"What do you suppose he will be like?" It was Lucy who broke the silence, selecting a bright daisy from the shrinking collection at her side and adding it to her ever-growing garland.

"I really could not guess," Susan spoke just a little repressively. If there was one thing that bothered Susan about the distribution of suitors, it was that Lucy was usually already acquainted with hers. As Susan's suitors were all foreign, it was very rare that she had already encountered them, and it was so hard to form an accurate opinion based only on the impression that the suitor wanted to convey. Lucy, however, remained undaunted.

"It's such a queer name," she said reflectively, nibbling on the stem of a daisy that had not qualified for the chain. "Rabadash. He sounds like a sort of root vegetable, doesn't he?"

"I do hope," Peter looked amused, "that you will not say this to his face. You would damage irreparably our already tenuous relations with Calormen."

"Pooh to Calormen," Lucy said around a mouthful of daisy stem, lacing another through her elaborate ornament. "I've no use for any of them- those ambassadors they sent over last month were perfectly odious, weren't they? Of course, I think they're all _terribly_ grumpy over there, anyhow. It comes of all the sun."

"Are you saying you are not enjoying this weather?" This was King Edmund, looking over the edge of his book with a twinkle in his eyes. "Do you mean to tell us you would prefer storm clouds and rain?"

Lucy made a face at him and spat out her daisy.

"Of course not. But that's because of the balance. After all, we have green and blue to go with all the gold, haven't we?" So saying, she waved her hand about them all to encompass the walls of their palace gleaming gold in the afternoon sun, the lush green lawns that stretched out beneath them, and the rolling blue oceans just visible over the great wall at the foot of the gently-sloping garden. "Narnia is like a delicious meal, really, with all these lovely colours and shades of colours and such. You just feel if you could only eat it, you would love it more than anything else you'd ever tasted and never be hungry again. But Calormen is like a bowl of sticky sweets. You can enjoy a bite or two, but after that it just makes you sick."

"Lucy!" Peter was shocked as Edmund hooted with laughter, and even Susan had to smile at Lucy's frank assessment. "Truly, we shall have to lock you away for the whole of the prince's visit if you're going to start saying his country gives you tooth ache!"

"I never said that," Lucy said pertly, sitting up to study the progress she had made so far. "I said that his country is- oh, now I shall have to do this part over," she frowned, lifting up two sections of daisy chain that had come apart in her hands. "Su, won't you please do this part for me?"

"No, Lucy, really, I don't-"

"Oh, do please," Lucy danced the chain in front of her, "or I shall never see it through. You're so much better at them than I."

"Oh, very well," Susan smiled, and reached out to take the floral concoction.

"Susan, I'm surprised at you. I should have thought you immune to such shameless flattery by now," Peter twinkled at his sister as she accepted Lucy's chain and examined the links. "What with all of the persistent gentlemen you've fended off these past few years, surely polite refusal must now come as second nature to you."

"Such low humour ill becomes you, brother," Susan said tartly, rethreading Lucy's chain with care. "I hope we will not have to lock you away along with Lucy when His Highness arrives."

"No fear," Edmund reassured them all. He glanced up at the sun, which was well started on its descent toward the Western horizon. "It seems nobody will have to be locked away today. I thought the prince was supposed to arrive at midday."

"He was," Susan said mildly, choosing one daisy from amongst a pile of discards she had set aside to lace it back amongst its fellows.

"Well that's rude enough of him, isn't it," Edmund looked a little irritated, and Lucy popped up like a jack-in-the-box to voice her assent.

"It is! It's very undiplomatic, too, I think. But is it," she wondered meditatively, "motive enough to cut him completely when he_ does_ arrive?"

"Why not leave that decision to me, Lu?" Peter suggested, amused, and Lucy dimpled at him in that particular way she reserved only for her family and dearest friends.

"If I must," she wrinkled her nose at him, and got it tapped smartly by her older brother.

"Impertinence!" he decreed, as if pronouncing her guilty of high treason. "Impertinence to the High King! Guards!"

Edmund and Susan promptly discarded their book and chain, respectively, and tackled their sister to the lawn, pinning her arms down as she shrieked with laughter and tried to twist free.

"What shall we do with her, Your Majesty?" Edmund asked, trying to sound particularly gruff and ominous. Peter pretended to consider as Lucy writhed on the ground, giggling helplessly.

"She must atone," he decided at last, "by presenting us with a costly treasure for our coffers."

"Have you anything of value to offer His Majesty, Prisoner?" Edmund's lips twitched with the effort of remaining serious, and Susan stopped tickling her sister long enough to let Lucy catch her breath and consider.

"Well . . . I do have a lovely daisy chain," she said meekly, and Peter pointed at commanding finger at her.

"Let it be brought to us to examine."

So Susan fetched the daisy chain and handed it to Lucy, who made a great show of bearing it over to Peter and bowing ridiculously low before him, and Peter pretended to consider the offering as his two "guards" looked on. At last he nodded solemnly, and accepted the chain.

"This will do nicely for our Royal sister; she looks well in daisies. You are pardoned, Prisoner, and you are commanded," he passed the chain back to her "to bear this to our sister, the Queen Susan, and adorn her with them."

Giggling, Lucy raced over to Susan and did as she'd been told, carefully arranging the lengthy chain about the hips of Susan's kirtle and up, over her shoulders to form a flowery mantle.

"There," she stepped back, beaming, and Susan blushed, trailing her fingers over the profusion of flowers.

"I feel like a garden," she mumbled.

"Suits you," Edmund grinned impishly, and Susan threw a daisy at him. Peter smiled at them both, and was about to speak when a sudden blare of trumpets drew them all up short, and had them looking toward the eastern wall.

"It's the envoy!" Lucy clapped her hands, apparently forgetting her prejudices against the country that reminded her of a bowl of sweets long enough to get excited about company arriving. Grabbing up her skirts she raced over the lawn, scrambling up the narrow stairs set into the side of the wall to peer over the parapet.

Edmund followed close behind his sister, but Peter and Susan hung back, sharing the sort of smile that older siblings tend to when they're amused by their younger ones. Then Peter's expression turned more serious and he put a hand on his sister's shoulder, dislodging a daisy as he did.

"Sister-" he stopped, cleared his throat and began again. "Susan. I ask that you . . . you must understand that this prince, no matter how powerful his father's armies may be and no matter how dour his ambassadors might have been, will remain in my mind the same as any other when it comes to his suit for your hand. First and foremost, he must win _your_ approval; then and only then will my own opinion count for something."

Susan's own smile was both understanding and grateful, and she patted his hand reassuringly.

"Thank you," she said quietly, and the weight of relief behind those words made Peter feel suddenly uncomfortable. To cover this, he smiled down at her in what he hoped was a carefree manner.

"Well," he said, suddenly as bracingly British as any Narnian king ever was, "this is it, then."

"Yes," Susan said softly, and if her hand trembled on his arm just a bit then we must forgive her, "I suppose it is."

And together, the pair of them started across the lawn to welcome the Calormene prince to Narnia.

O0O0O0O

**A.N.:** Happy thirteenth birthday, Erin! I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I'm enjoying writing it. You're a special cousin and a wonderful girl, and I only wish I could have given you more.

I hope this hasn't been too slow a setup for most people. I know Lewis tended to get into the action right away, and I really am trying to follow the pattern he laid out, but this isn't going to be particularly action-packed until closer the end. I do love these kids, though (although I suppose by now they're not exactly kids anymore) and I love having them interact. I always liked to think they never lost that connection that made them fun to read in the first place, and I hope that I've managed to get that across. I also hope I managed to re-capture the courtyard of Cair Paravel with some degree of accuracy; I took the description given in _Prince Caspian_ and imagined it alive and blooming, and this is what I got.

Up next: The Much-Too-Much Envoy to Cair Paravel, wherein we meet a prince, Lucy voices her opinion and Susan keeps hers to herself.


	2. Much Too Much Envoy to Cair Paravel

The Much-Too-Much Envoy to Cair Paravel

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"Well, Sister?" Edmund and Lucy stood side by side, watching as ranks of silk-draped litters borne by slaves paraded up the main road to Cair Paravel.

"Well, Brother?" she stood on the tips of the toes of her silken slippers, leaning as far over the edge as she could to get a better look.

"What do you think?"

Lucy shrugged, a dainty frown puckering her forehead.

"I think what I thought when first they came; the fuss of it all is just too much. _Much_ too much, really." She made a scornful sound with her tongue and cheek, and if Edmund had to bite the inside of his own cheek to keep back a smile then we must forgive him.

"You don't find it at all amusing?"

"Amusing?" Lucy was clearly indignant. "By which part of it, pray tell, ought I be amused? The fact that those poor men bearing the litters have no say in the matter, or the fact that they have surely carried them all the way up from the ports without a rest?"

Edmund, suitably chastened, cleared his throat, tugged awkwardly on his doublet and took another look at the lavish caravan drawing ever closer to the gates of Cair Paravel. It was a simple matter for the brother and sister to pick out the litter that bore the Calormene prince- easily the largest by two or three times, it required ten slaves to carry it. It was hung with the most colourful, lavishly-appointed silk draperies, and even from high atop the parapet Lucy half fancied she could smell a thick, sickly-sweet perfume wafting up from within.

"Do you think she'll like him?" Lucy asked after a moment's silence, and Edmund pretended not to notice that his sister's voice had suddenly gotten much quieter; so much so that she almost sounded like a little girl again.

"I'm sure I couldn't say," said Edmund, who probably could have but thought Lucy sounded worried enough already. "And I shouldn't let it bother you, Lu. Susan's . . . she's good at what she does. She makes a wonderful queen because she knows how to think for herself without speaking too frankly about what it is she thinks."

"That's what makes a good queen, then, is it?" Lucy asked, and Edmund, I am pleased to report, at least had the grace to blush.

"Oh, no, Lucy, I didn't mean-"

"No, of course, you're right." Lucy straightened up a bit, although she still did not look away from the procession below them. "I do speak my mind. But," (and here she sounded just a little bit hurt) "I do hope I don't hurt anybody's feelings. I would never say something hurtful about somebody. I do hope you know that, Ed," and she looked up at him with such earnestness that Edmund wondered if he had ever felt like such a heel before in his life.

"No, of course not," he shuffled awkwardly. "I only meant to reassure you that Susan knew what she was about. I- well, I say," he made an effort at a smile, pointing down over the parapet again, "have you ever seen such a perfectly ridiculous hat in your life?"

Lucy looked for a moment as if she would refuse to lean over the edge again, but seeing the pleading look on Edmund's face she relented, and looked. At the sight of the silken, lavishly-feathered turban with its absurd metal spike poking through a vent in the top of a litter, she felt a giggle bubbling up inside her in spite of herself.

"Oh, he _does_ look a sight," she laughed, and Edmund agreed wholeheartedly. And however undiplomatic it might have been of them to think and say such things, in Edmund's mind it was worth it for when his sister looked back up at him some of the tension had left her face to make room for the dimples to re-appear.

"Thank you, Edmund," she smiled, and he smiled in return, trying to hide the relief he felt at seeing that painful earnestness leave her face.

"Now," his smile widened to a bit of a grin, "why don't we go inside with the others and practice our diplomacy?"

And although it couldn't be said that Lucy thought this sounded like the most fun in the world, she decided she might as well be a good sport about it and even managed another little smile as she laid her hand on Edmund's arm and they started down the steps.

O0O0O0O

As they stood together in the grand courtyard that lay just inside the gates of Cair Paravel to await the arrival of the Calormene ambassadors, Peter and Susan were unusually quiet. While it was not strange for the two of them to spend some time together without speaking, it was strange that they would refrain from speech when there was something so important to be discussed. Of course, it's often the way with the most important subjects that people are so anxious to approach them properly, they sometimes don't approach them at all for fear of botching things up. It was this fear that kept the pair silent for so long. Only when the first round of fanfare from the trumpets was heard did Susan suddenly blurt out,

"You needn't fear I will make any decision rashly. Naturally I will be tactful, but don't worry, Brother," she straightened her shoulders imperceptibly. "I will not be persuaded to any decision that would not be for the good of myself and Narnia. As dearly as I love my kingdom, my honour will not be the price of its making a profit abroad."

It was a very pretty speech, in a style very popular in Narnia at the time (while older styles of speech in Narnia are longer and more convoluted, much like Calormen speeches still are today, the latest style was shorter and spoke well of honour and devotion without laying it on too thick). It was the sort of speech that Susan excelled at, and Peter often wished he could manage better but was secretly relieved that he had not had to initiate. Still, he was quick to take up his own part by saying stoutly, "and it should go without saying that no Narnian who loves his queen would ever ask such a sacrifice of her to begin with."

They smiled at each other in almost foolish relief before another, shorter silence fell over them again. The trumpets grew louder and the muffled footsteps of the slaves were heard before the hush was broken.

"I wonder . . ." Susan bit her lip, drawing Peter's gaze once more. "I wonder," she spoke slowly, "what sort of man he may be."

Peter felt a sudden stab of sympathy for Susan as he reflected, not for the first time, on how unfair it was that his sisters should be the ones who had to turn away so very many men without offending any of them (of course there had been that one Archenlander Lucy had gone after with her dagger, but he'd had it coming).

Peter and Edmund, in contrast, did not have to worry about emissaries coming to barter for their hands in marriage. Women did not seek their own husbands in Narnia, nor in any other province or kingdom for leagues around. This meant that while Peter's diplomatic skills needed only to cover peace talks and trade treaties, his sisters not only had to understand the politics of their own kingdom but the politics and courting customs of hundreds of other kingdoms in order to avoid offending the nobility that resided in each of them. Looking at Susan now, he only wished he had some better way to reassure her that he had no doubt of her ability to do them all proud.

"I am sure," he smiled at her encouragingly (not an easy thing to do when one is not feeling particularly encouraged himself), "that he will be . . . conscious of the honour you do him with your attentions. If he is not," a sterner, more kingly aspect stole across Peter's face, "then he is no longer welcome in our home. You, Susan; you, Lucy and Edmund- you are more important to me than any treaties."

Susan's lips pursed, and Peter knew she was trying to keep a smile under control.

"Then perhaps," she said, "you had best leave the talking to me, brother dear. Otherwise the Tisroc will be up in arms when you fling his son out of Cair Paravel for announcing that he didn't like the shape of my nose."

"By the Lion, if he dares to malign any part of you then I'll have him begging me to chuck him out," Peter muttered, and Susan's eyes widened in horror. Before she could take him to task over the remark, though, there came the sound of laughter and the rush of running feet as Edmund and Lucy came pelting across the flagstones to join their older siblings. The rest of the Narnian court that had been appointed to welcome the Calormenes was also pouring out into the airy courtyard, so Susan bit her lip and held back any remark she might have wanted to make (it's that sort of necessary self-control that makes being a queen rather unpleasant at times).

Peter, though, knew exactly what his dire threat had done to his sister's nerves, so just as the trumpets blared and the gates of Cair Paravel swung wide to admit their guests, he tossed her a reassuring smile.

"But only if he really means it," he amended, and Susan fought to not roll her eyes.

"Small comforts," she murmured, and Lucy peeked over from her place at the end of the line.

"What are you two going on about?" she wanted to know, but Edmund elbowed her sharply in the ribs and she quickly straightened up just as the first of the litters was borne in with great pomp.

"Pre-_sent_ing," bawled the man with the largest trumpet, "the grand and noble Tarkaan Azrooh of the High Rock."

The man who alighted from the litter was garbed in severe robes of midnight-coloured silk, with a bejewelled turban to match. He was tall and somehow twisted looking ("Like a tree," Lucy would say later, "that's grown too much in one way and started to grow back in on itself". And though this was not diplomatic, it was certainly accurate). His gnarled fingers looked like sinewy tree roots, and he used them to perform a fancy sort of salute that preceded a deep and formal bow. He then straightened, and Peter, his face solemn, nodded once in welcome. Then he beckoned at the company behind him and a Faun stepped neatly forward to show the Tarkaan off to the side while his litter was borne away and another took its place.

"Pre-_sent_ing," shrilled the trumpet-man, "the fierce and terrible Tarkaan Azraad of the Low Plain."

Azraad of the Low Plain looked a fitting person for the title if anybody did. Where Azrooh had been tall and gnarled, Azraad was stunted and pointy. His robes were grey and looked somehow dirty, but the profusion of gilt and jewels that covered him made it almost impossible to tell for sure. It would never have entered Lucy's head to believe the two men were related had not Edmund, who had taken a crash course in old Calormene royalty a month ago, murmured close to her ear that the two men were brothers who had feuded for years.

"How sad," Lucy breathed, her eyes wide. She had not meant to speak as loudly as she did, but she had a very clear, high voice and it always carried farther than she meant it to. As a result, Azraad of the Low Plain looked sharply in her direction, his beady little eyes seeming to bore into her.

"Oh," she said, and her voice was very small again. She faltered, but only for a moment. Then, quite suddenly, she smiled sunnily at Azraad and the brilliance of the expression was so clearly unexpected that he blinked, took a small step back, and then realised that King Peter was patiently awaiting acknowledgement of his nod of greeting. Azraad quickly nodded back, and another Faun came to show him to one side too. Lucy bit her bottom lip to tame her smile as the litter was removed and the next Tarkaan announced.

It soon proved to be that Prince Rabadash had brought with him twenty of his most trusted lords. All of them alighted before their prince so that they would be standing at a respectful attention when it was Rabadash's turn, and the prince wouldn't have to be kept standing. Of course this meant that the Narnian kings and queens had to stand, but when one is hosting visiting royalty one really can't make a fuss about such things.

At last it was time for Rabadash to emerge from his own litter ("And it certainly took him long enough," Lucy would observe the moment they were behind closed doors. "Those poor slaves were carrying him for goodness knows how long. They really ought to learn to use their legs, these Calormene noblemen"). At this point the man with the trumpet became very solemn, and piped an elaborate aria with the help of nine other trumpeters. Upon concluding, the trumpeter squawked,

"In the name of Tash the irresistible, the inexorable! Pre-_sent_ing the first and favoured son of the Tisroc (may-he-live-forever), his Imperial Highness, the Prince Rabadash!" ("And about time, too," Queen Lucy fumed softly, but fortunately nobody heard her).

Then the curtains of the litter were parted, and a very tall, very dressed-up man stepped down. He was darkly handsome, in a sleek, elegant sort of way, and Susan felt a small knot in her stomach dissolve. A very tiny part of her had feared he would be as stunted and warty as some of the other men who had accompanied him, but in fact he was not entirely unattractive. He was a good deal more perfumed and pomaded than the Narnian men, and his little moustache and goatee were elaborately waxed, but somehow the features seemed to suit his angular face and Susan was not too hard put to find a smile for him as he alighted.

"Rabadash," Peter spoke with such dignity that his brother and sisters privately marvelled that they could be related to such a man, "Prince of Calormen, we and our Royal Brother and Sisters welcome you to our court. May your Father's reign be long and prosperous, and may friendship always be found between our two great nations."

"Your Majesty," Rabadash made one of the elaborate, Calormene gestures that are meant to signify a very specific sort of honour, depending on the recipient's age, rank and certain other factors. "Our Imperial Father the Tisroc (may-he-live-forever) sends his blessing on a long and happy relationship between our kingdoms, and desires that we present you with these," a lazy gesture of his hand brought forward a slave leading a string of four prancing, high-spirited horses, "as a token of his esteem."

"We are honoured to accept," Peter inclined his head and a gesture of his own hand brought a groom forward to take the quartet.

They were in fact beautiful horses, of no mean pedigree. I don't know if you have ever seen Calormene horses, but they have a particularly fierce bearing that is not unlike that of the Tarkaans themselves. They are built on powerful, muscular lines that speak heavily of their desert breeding and suitability for long, hard stints of riding across hot sands. They are smaller and daintier than English or Narnian horses, but for all their lesser size they are still majestic and lovely, and Lucy could not take her eyes off those four. She was already plotting to sneak away and try each of them out as soon as possible, that she might bully her siblings into letting her have her choice of them later on, when Peter's voice recalled her to herself.

"May we present our Royal sister, Queen Lucy of Narnia."

She offered a smile and a perfunctory curtsey and was rewarded with pretty words and a flowery gesture, the meaning of which she resolved to look up later. Then Peter was turning to their brother, and she forced herself to not look back to the horses as he spoke again.

"Our Royal brother, King Edmund of Narnia."

Edmund's bearing was impressive and his face impassive as he performed a brisk, direct bow that was returned in the form of an elaborate posture, and suddenly Lucy found herself thinking how even the salutations of both countries reflected the true nature of their subjects. Nobody in Narnia that she knew would ever dream of wasting so much time on a simple bow; they'd much rather get right down to asking you how you were and what you had done at your auntie's house for the holiday, or something similar. In Calormen, apparently, such interest in hum-drum goings-on took second place to courtly greetings, since none of the Tarkaans nor Prince Rabadash had made the same type of bow or speech twice.

"And," Peter's voice changed almost imperceptibly; he was presenting a Royal Treasure, and he wanted to ensure Rabadash knew it as well as he, "our Royal sister. Queen Susan of Narnia." He looked over at Susan with all the rest of those assembled, but Susan did not so much as blink at the attention, since it is the sort of thing a queen must be used to. She offered a serene smile and swept a very nice curtsey, and it was easy to see that Rabadash was impressed by her from the start.

"I see that the rumours of your great beauty have been in no way exaggerated, O Queen," the prince said, his voice a honeyed purr as he offered the most lavish salute yet. "Your features are truly a feast for the eyes. And may I presume," his feasting eyes skimmed her fleetingly, "that the costume in which you appear is some sort of . . . Narnian folk garb? The flowers are truly an inspired touch."

Beet-red, Susan looked down and realised Lucy's daisy chain (now much the worse for wear, as flowers that have been plucked in great heat always are) still encircled her waist and throat. She swallowed and reached to rip them off, but Peter shifted just a bit, and by his movement stayed her hand.

"Queen Susan," Peter said, and only a fool would not have heard the warning in his voice, "naturally takes great pride in all our Narnian traditions. The flowers she wears are native to our soil and the favourite blossom of her dear sister."

"Then may I say, O Queen," Rabadash offered a smile that rearranged his moustache most becomingly, "though I risk your sister's rebuke, that as lovely as the blossoms are, they cannot hope to do justice to the face that overshadows them with its radiance."

Susan smiled, accepting the compliment. Then Peter made a slight gesture with his hand, and the company assembled moved to begin rearranging everybody.

As the Tarkaans were led to their quarters, Peter turned to address their guest. The High King said ever-so-politely that he was sure the prince would enjoy a restorative bath in the room that the Faun (another approached) would show him, so Rabadash had to say of course he would (that's how things are done in diplomatic circles- people tell you they're sure that what they have arranged will be what you most enjoy, so you don't have any choice but to do it since it would be rude to tell them you would much rather do something else).

Once the prince had agreed to the bath, it remained only for the Narnian Kings and Queens to stand where they were, waiting patiently until the courtyard was cleared and they were alone again once more.

O0O0O0O

Up next: A Poorly-Handled Council and Some Truly Lovely Gifts, wherein we are invited to empathise with Lucy, pity Susan, and perhaps get just a little cross with Peter.


	3. A Poorly Handled Council

A Poorly-Handled Council and Some Truly Lovely Gifts

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The brothers and sisters waited until Rabadash and his court had been shown away before everybody's shoulders slumped in relief.

"Well they certainly put on a show," Lucy decided, and Edmund bit the inside of his cheek very quickly as Susan looked horrified.

Peter hissed "Lucy!" and Lucy looked injured, but Peter maintained a very stern frown as he instructed her, "pray wait at least until we are certain we are not overheard to make so free with your thoughts. These are not easy times and I will not have them made any the less easy by your disapproval of the Calormene style of . . . arriving."

So Lucy held her tongue as they made their way out of the courtyard to more private quarters, although secretly she thought that any country that had an actual style for arriving somewhere deserved all the scorn she could offer it.

Of course, the real reason for Lucy's derision lay not in any real disgust she held for Calormen, but for Susan's insistence on politely receiving a suitor who came from there; who came from anywhere, in fact. For all that Peter had vowed to defend Susan's decision, it was Lucy who was the most protective of their sister. It came of having the sort of temper that made it hard for Lucy to understand why Susan wouldn't simply say what she thought about things; Lucy was of the belief that this would lead Susan into trouble some day if somebody weren't there to take up for her, so Lucy had resolved to be that person. Now that this prince had come from his faraway land with his slaves, his horses (oh, how Lucy longed to get a closer look at those horses) and his hundred-and-one ways to greet foreign royalty, Lucy was feeling rather like a cat with its back up. This was why, the moment the four kings and queens had reached a particular room where only a centaur stood guard at the door and a Faun stood discreetly in one corner in case they should need anything, she rounded on her sister with a fierce challenge.

"You _cannot_ be serious."

"Lucy," Susan smiled fondly at her younger sister, removing the bedraggled remnants of her daisy chain and draping them affectionately over Lucy's shoulders, "dear Lucy, trust me. Please. I am sure the prince has many admirable qualities, and I have faith that in time I shall discover many of them. Surely I owe him that courtesy, at least."

"I don't see why," Lucy said peevishly, and Susan had to hold back an even broader smile at the petulant look on her sister's face.

"I understand that, silly goose," she twinkled, plucking the least wilted daisy from the chain and threading it through one of her sister's curls, "but I do not ask you to see why; only to understand that _I_ see the need, and to accept that I must conduct myself accordingly. I cannot be the little lioness you always are; it suits you well, but it should ill become me, and I must be as _I_ am. Do you understand that much, at least?"

And Lucy, who certainly did not understand how Susan could truly mean such things but certainly understood the grown-up way in which she said them, scowled and said she supposed she did, but immediately after saying so she turned on her heel and ran from the room. This was apparently the signal for all the rest of them to settle, however uneasily, into chairs or onto low couches and look at one another in that way that people do when they know something must soon be done, but are by no means willing to see it done right away. This is not really the way Kings and Queens should best behave when they have important guests of state in their castle, but in this particular case we must excuse them, for in truth no other suitor had ever made such immediate pomp and fanfare out of his petition for Queen Susan's hand, and were they to be honest (as certainly they would have been) they would have said that the glittering parade of arrivals had unnerved each of them to some degree.

"He must certainly be a man of purpose," Susan murmured at last, "to come in such numbers and . . . style."

"Do not ask me to believe, Sister," Peter spoke a trifle more sharply than I am sure he intended, "that you could be swayed in your decision purely by his numbers and style, for I should certainly think the worse of you if you do."

"Peter!" poor Susan looked so wounded at the accusation that Peter had the grace to look discomfited, and under Edmund's look of shocked reproof he subsided still further.

"I did not mean to so impugn you, my Lady," he murmured, and tried not to feel like a perfect worm when he saw tears in his sister's eyes.

"I should hope you did not," it was Edmund, not Susan, who spoke, and he was particularly severe because he, too, had seen the tears. "We all of us know our good sister far better than to imagine her head might be so easily turned by the vagaries of one man's vanity. I am sure, Sister," he turned to face Susan with an encouraging sort of smile, "that it was only the concern our brother feels for you, and his apprehension of the strain it shall be for you to endure these next few days, that provoked him to speak so thoughtlessly."

Susan, for her part, felt rather a child as she tried to hold back still more tears that were welling steadily up, but with a valiant effort she kept them back and smiled at both the men before her.

"Indeed," she murmured, once she thought she could trust her voice to hold steady, "we are all of us under some degree of strain or other. Perhaps it would be best if I were to retire, and leave you both to such discussions of state as I am sure an event like this should occasion."

And, so saying, Susan got up carefully from her own chair and all but fled from the room herself, which left Edmund to glower at Peter and Peter to feel very small indeed.

O0O0O0O

After she had left her sister and brothers behind, Lucy had been on the verge of retiring to her own chamber to have a good, long sulk when it occurred to her that surely by now the horses Prince Rabadash had brought would be safely within the stables of Cair Paravel, awaiting her pleasure at viewing them. The thought cheered her up more than any amount of sulking could have done, and she abruptly altered her course, heading down another corridor that would take her to the lower reaches of the castle, where the stables were located.

Upon her arrival she spoke to Gillikin, the gruff little dwarf who was head groom in the Royal stables. Gillikin obligingly pointed her to the four stalls that housed the four new horses from Calormen.

"And a fine collection of beasts they be, too," he added grudgingly, "for all them's being furrin' horseflesh."

Lucy thanked him and, eyes sparkling, darted over to peer into first one stall, then another, then the next and finally the fourth, all the while drinking in the beautiful sight of those four magnificent horses.

They were clearly meant for saddle, since none of them were matched to one another. The first, a tossing, snorting stallion, she rather fancied had been meant for Peter from the start. Indeed, she believed she would be hard put to beg her brother to give him up. An array of powerful muscles bunched and rippled beneath the animal's glossy, chestnut coat as he turned and pranced and tossed his head, clearly scenting the resident stallion that was kept in the next aisle over. He looked for all the world like a furious sunset, just raging to burst free and challenge something –anything– and Lucy was quite sure she would not approach him alone if she could help it at all.

"What could they have been thinking?" she marvelled, "Surely they knew we kept a stallion of our own."

"Indeed they might've done," offered the ever-vocal Gillikin, "but you never knows as what's going on in the heads of furriners, surely, Majesty, and it's not as if he's a poor offering, at that. A real prize piece of animal, there is, and look you if he isn't ready to leap out of there himself to get at His Majesty's own stallion all on his own."

"Indeed," Lucy frowned, watching as the gorgeous animal tossed his head and snorted, nostrils flaring red. "I am sure it will be the choice of my brother whether we are to keep him or not, but should the High King wish to have this animal for his own then we must certainly find another place to house one of the stallions; you know what stallions are when they are together."

And Gillikin, who knew perhaps even better than Lucy, nodded sagely, and asked what she thought of the others.

"Oh, I do love this one," she said at once, turning and indicating a lovely little mare who, in her eagerness to garner another approach from Lucy, had her head hung as far out over the door as it could reach. "She looks as if she would climb right into my lap if she could, and it makes me laugh. What's her name, please? Or does she have one?"

"None of them's got any names as was told ter me," Gillikin groused, and Lucy had to hide a smile at his evident indignation.

"Then you shall be the first to know," she informed him gravely, "that if the High King will allow me to have her for my own, I shall name her Aravir. Does that appease you?"

"Not a question of appeasing me, now, is it, Majesty?" Gillikin huffed, but anyone could tell by the smile beneath his beard that he was very pleased indeed. "And a lovely name that is for her, too," he added after a moment's thought. "Suits her, like. She do look a bit like the morning star at that, don't she? Real friendly-like, and such."

And indeed, nobody could have accused Aravir of being at all stand-offish. Had the pretty, golden-chestnut mare been a dog she would have been whining, wagging her tail and scratching frantically at the door to be freed, but as she was a horse she could only snort and whicker and stomp her hoof most anxiously until Lucy returned to pet her again.

"Oh, you are a dear," she laughed, then gave a little squeak as the horse immediately began to munch on the bedraggled daisy chain that hung over her shoulder. "A lovely, lovely dear," she murmured, lifting the chain up a bit so Aravir could nibble it better, "and you are all mine."

"I see you have chosen already," a new voice laughed, and Lucy looked up to see Susan making her way toward the end of the aisle. "And have you left the worst of the lot for the rest of us, then?"

"Not at all!" Lucy was indignant, and as Aravir finished the last of the daisies the younger Queen stomped her foot in much the same way that her horse had done. "There are three left and they are all perfectly lovely, though I do not think I should advise you to choose this storm-cloud here," and she nodded at the stallion. "He is most disagreeable."

"He does seem rather out of sorts," Susan concurred once she had inspected the stallion for herself. "Perhaps Peter will find some use for him yet, though. But who," she wondered, moving to the next stall, "is this?"

"Oh, I thought you might like her," Lucy wrinkled her nose, then smiled. "She seems a bit of a mouse, but maybe she'd be better once she was used to you. And certainly," the young queen offered grudgingly, "she is lovely enough."

A milky-white head with eyes as black as coal hung over the door, and Susan and the mare regarded one another with great solemnity. They were an odd sort of match in some ways, but seeing them together Lucy suddenly wondered if the Calormene ambassadors who had first come to meet with them had not picked these animals out themselves, since the mare and Susan seemed almost to hold a silent conference with one another before the queen rested a gentle hand on the horse's cheek, and smiled as if in understanding.

"We will do well together," she said mildly, and Lucy rather thought they would.

"What will you call her?" she wondered, as Aravir first nuzzled Lucy in search of more daisies, then delivered a good-natured nudge with her nose that almost sent the queen sprawling. Susan considered carefully.

"What have you called yours?"

"Aravir. Because I thought she looked rather like the morning star. And you needn't laugh," Lucy added hastily. "For she's mine, and I may name her what I please."

"I wasn't going to laugh," Susan smiled. "I was only thinking what a charming idea it is, and how I would very much like to call my own Alambil."

It was a marvellous concept, and both sisters seemed to think so at once. They decided it remained only to convince their brothers to follow the pattern they had set, though as Susan pointed out, they were hardly in a fit state to receive them now, so after the girls had taken their leave of the horses and Gillikin they rushed back together to the sitting room they shared between their rooms.

"Fancy, naming them all after stars," Lucy bubbled as they mounted a flight of stairs. "Stars, or planets in your case- but really, I've always thought Alambil looks just like a very bright star. I should never have thought it, but now that I do I think it's the most wonderful thing in the world! They really are the loveliest gifts, too, aren't they? It wasn't at all mean of him, I'll certainly give him that."

"No," Susan agreed, "it wasn't mean of him, exactly, but you must remember the size and wealth of Calormen, after all. He could well afford to turn over to us four horses ill-suited to battle- and you must admit, Lucy, that whatever else they may be, these are the very farthest thing from good war horses. I wonder if that may not be why they were chosen."

"Well I should imagine that great, angry red one wouldn't make too poor a showing in a war," Lucy argued, and Susan, nodding absently to a bowing courtier they passed in the corridor, shrugged.

"He certainly has spirit. All the same, I shouldn't like to trust him," she decided. "With a temper like that, he might very well bolt at the first scent of blood. I'm not saying that they deliberately gave us horses we couldn't use to make war, of course," she murmured, remembering just in time to keep her voice down as they passed through the section of the castle allotted to the foreign dignitaries, "but I would wonder very much if any of them proved suited to anything more than parades, and the like."

It was a new way to look at the thing, certainly, and Lucy was more than a little embarrassed to have not seen it that way for herself. She stole an admiring glance at her sister as they rounded the corner that took them away from the guest wing, toward the private part of the castle where the kings, queens and only their most trusted courtiers lived. A pair of imposing centaurs stood guard, and both saluted the queens smartly as they passed under the arch, into the Royal wing. It was only once they were safely within the confines of the lovely little sitting room that the sisters shared that Lucy felt herself able to flop down on a couch and confess that she felt rather an idiot next to Susan. Susan, who had been on the verge of sending for tea, left the bell-pull to sit next to Lucy and stare at her in surprise.

"Whatever do you mean, Lu?" she wondered, placing a hand on her little sister's shoulder. "I'm sure you're a hundred times cleverer than I at so many things, it should embarrass me to think of it. Why do you say otherwise?"

So Lucy had to explain how Susan's comment about the horses not being suited for wars had made her start to think. "And as I thought," she sniffled, "I realised that you were right, and it would really be a feeble gesture on their part, just to give us horses we mightn't use against them, wouldn't it? And then I thought some more, and I realised that you're _always_ right about things like this- the diplomatic things, and the ones that mean a person actually has to think a bit before making a choice. You always know best what to say, but even when you _say_ the right thing you can be _thinking_ something else entirely, so while people might _think_ they're taking you in, you're really being quite brainy about it, and you'd never in a million years let yourself be deceived. And it only made me think," and here Lucy began to sniffle in earnest, "how very stupid I am about things like that, because here I was thinking you needed me to take up for you, when really you're every bit as clever as the rest of us; sometimes even more so."

"Lucy!" poor Susan was understandably taken aback at this sudden outburst. She produced a handkerchief at once and presented it to her sister, with a quick admonition not to sniff so. "Lucy you aren't at all stupid and I won't have you saying that you are. To be diplomatic is a very small thing, whatever Peter may say to you."

"A small thing indeed!" wailed poor Lucy. "We're queens, aren't we? Oughtn't we be the most diplomatic of _all _people? Even before Peter and Edmund? After all, they can at least declare war when it suits them, but we cannot and so are meant to always be charming."

"For all the attention you have paid to such things before now," Susan had to smile, "I should have thought that the least of your concerns. Didn't you chase King Lune's idiotic nephew halfway to the castle gates before Peter and I caught you, and made you calm down?"

"He was presumptuous," Lucy mumbled, and Susan laughed outright.

"No more than were you, when you started waving your dagger at him and telling him to turn around and repeat his last remark to your face! He was our guest, Lucy, and that was another time when you really might have thought things through better. But don't you see," she smiled fondly down at her sister, picking off a speck of two of straw that had travelled up from the stables, "that still ended for the better, for when King Lune learned how rude his nephew had been, he opened up better trade with us than ever. And how else should we have become such friends with him otherwise? For you know as well as I that he is a kindly man, but not much given to forays into other nations, and it was only through your treatment of that horrid little duke that we were able to become so close with him. And now, thanks to you and your dagger," Susan's eyes danced almost as merrily as Lucy's often did, "we have a very dear friend and ally."

At this observation, Lucy cheered up just a little. She looked down at her handkerchief and, sensing Susan's expectant look, managed a nod.

"I suppose so," she murmured, and Susan took that as all the encouragement she could hope for that that point. With a nod of approval, she patted Lucy's shoulder and got to her feet.

"I'm going to dress for dinner now," she told her, "and I imagine you might think about doing the same, but please, dear," and here she made the sort of grown-up, tsking noise that Lucy had almost grown fond of over the years, "whatever you do, be sure to wash your face, first."

And on the strength of that piece of advice, Susan slipped quietly from the room, leaving Lucy to think things over.

O0O0O0O

**A.N.:** I hope nobody fell asleep during the description of the horses! It took longer than I had planned but I felt I just had to work that in, especially after Susan's bitter lament in _Prince Caspian_ that included a recollection of her "beautiful horse". It made me wonder about the horse itself, and I decided to see if I could play with it to reveal a bit more about the Calormene approach to this courtship as well. The names of the horses are, of course, names of some of the Narnian stars and/or planets as they are mentioned in _Prince Caspian,_ and the name Gillikin is a nod to L. Frank Baum, who is another favourite author of mine. If you haven't read all of the books in the Oz series then really, you should! They're such fun.

I also want to offer a sincere thank you to everybody who has been so kind as to take the time to review. Your praise, suggestions and encouragement are invaluable and I hope you continue to have as much fun with this as I am.

Up next: The Commencement of a Mostly-Agreeable Courtship, wherein we are invited to further pity Susan, forgive Peter, and be wary of Rabadash.


	4. A Mostly Agreeable Courtship

The Commencement of a Mostly-Agreeable Courtship

O0O0O0O

The moment Susan was alone in her bedchamber, she went straight into the little area set aside for dressing. It was her favourite part of the room, hung with soft tapestries and featuring a lovely little vanity with a well-cushioned seat. It was on this bench that Susan sat, having first rung for the dwarf who did her hair (for when one is a queen, especially a queen with the length of hair that Susan had, one usually has somebody to see to these things).

As she waited for the dwarf, Susan engaged in a little exercise she often employed, examining her recent behaviour to see where she had fallen short and might improve. It wasn't the sort of exercise you or I would find very agreeable, and in perfect truth Susan did not enjoy it very much either. But she had always been a very grown-up little girl, and now that she was grown up for real she felt she must be even more grown-up than ever, and to her mind this was the sort of thing that a grown-up lady and a queen ought best to do.

Usually she did not find much fault with herself, but today was different. Today, as far as she could see, from the time that Rabadash had arrived at Cair Paravel she had hardly done anything as she ought. From the moment she had allowed Lucy to put the daisy chain on her, she felt as if she couldn't possibly have failed any more miserably than she had.

"Foolish," she muttered, brushing fiercely at a daisy petal that still clung to her sleeve. "To appear before a prince dressed like a peasant girl . . . daisies and a kirtle! Honestly, a _kirtle_! Whatever could I have been thinking, to wear only a . . ." but here she stopped, for the door had opened to admit a short, stout, rosy-cheeked dumpling of a woman with a pointy chin.

Susan had been about to wonder what she could have been thinking to wear only a kirtle, as if she were a common goose-girl. Before she had finished the thought, however, she had seen that the dwarf herself wore only a brown kirtle over a simple white shift, so Susan kindly held her tongue. And really, she reasoned silently, as the dwarf approached the dressing area, it was very snobbish of her to look so severely on anybody who would only wear the most basic pieces of a lady's wardrobe. After all, she and Lucy often wore simpler things when they didn't have to be particularly fancy; it was so much more comfortable than hot, itchy layers of fabric, especially under the summer sun. The daisies, though . . . Susan shuddered. How _could_ she have worn those daisies?

"And how are we tonight, Madam?" beamed the dwarf, whose name was Ethelfritha. With a little hop she was up onto the stair that was built into the back of the vanity bench. Susan herself had arranged this convenience for the dwarfish hairdresser when she saw what a chore it was for the little woman to always be fetching a stool.

"We are rather fatigued," Susan smiled wryly, and Ethelfritha, skilfully whipping out handfuls of pins from what had once been a tightly-braided coronet, clucked her tongue in dismay.

"Truly, Madam? Well, I'm most sorry to hear that. But surely tonight will be exciting- just fancy, seven days of feasting, and all for a foreign prince! I'm sure I've never heard the like."

"Prince Rabadash is our honoured guest," Susan observed, though whether this was meant as excuse, apology, reproof or mere statement of fact was impossible to tell.

"To be sure he is," Ethelfritha said agreeably, finally freeing Susan's oceans of black hair and taking a brush in hand. "To be sure, that he is. And is your Majesty pleased to dance with him tonight? For I have heard he is a famous dancer in that interesting Calormene style, whatever else his faults may be."

"Whatever his faults may be," Susan said mildly, "I am sure it is not for us to speculate on them. Should he wish to reveal them in due course, we may then comment as discretion permits, but until that time let us restrict ourselves to remarks upon fact, rather than speculation. And yes," she smiled in the mirror at the little woman behind her, "I do rather look forward to dancing tonight. You know how I enjoy it."

"I do indeed, Madam," Ethelfritha smiled kindly, plaiting Susan's hair loosely down her back. Then she scrambled down off the step to let the queen lead the way into the part of the dressing-chamber that held her gowns. "Now, what shall your Majesty be pleased to wear tonight? There are several new gowns from the seamstresses- they could not wait to get to work when they learned you would be wearing them for the Prince of Calormen."

"That was kind of them," Susan murmured absently, trailing her hand over first one sleeve, then another, before finally lifting out a lavish blue creation that somehow seemed suited to a happier woman than she felt.

"Is this one of them?" she wondered, and when Ethelfritha declared it was, Susan decided she would wear it that night.

Once she had been tucked, laced and buttoned into the chosen gown, Susan returned to the vanity and allowed Ethelfritha to work her hair over again. Rather than doing it up, though, she suggested that Susan might like to leave it down for the night, and Susan, who suddenly felt she'd had enough of pomp and ceremony, decided yes, she'd love to have her hair down. So Ethelfritha contented herself with simply arranging the queen's crown on her head, and then she stepped back and said she could not recall ever seeing Her Majesty look lovelier.

"You are sweet to say so," Susan smiled, "and if you did not say so every time you did my hair, I might even believe you." Then she thanked the little dwarf, and waited until Ethelfritha had gone before moving quickly through the door into the sitting chamber. She did not stop there, but crossed that room to the other side, where she knocked timidly on Lucy's own door.

"Lucy?" she spoke carefully, and hoped the nervous tremble she felt all over would not come out in her voice. "Lucy, will you walk down with me? I think- I rather think I might like the company."

And we must not think her saying so is a weakness of any kind, for even queens get nervous, now and then.

O0O0O0O

Susan and Lucy did walk down together, and so did Peter and Edmund. They all agreed afterward it was funny they should all have been so nervous at that one time, but I suppose it might have had to do with them all being at each other's throats so recently, and then having to put on a brave front for the envoy.

I'm not even sure they could have pulled it off, either, had they not all met up just behind the curtain that hung behind the head table, and even then it was a near miss. At the first sight of each other, they all got rather red and everybody seemed to look at a different thing, the way people do when they can't quite face up to having behaved childishly. They may well have gone on that way indefinitely, had Edmund not said suddenly,

"Well at any rate, at least we know better than to act like a lot of kids over this, don't we?" and it was so funny, because that was exactly what they were all doing, that all of them started to laugh, and everything was quite forgiven and everybody began talking at once (but quietly, since the whole room was only a curtain away).

"We can do this, you know," Lucy said unexpectedly, and the others all swung round to look at her in surprise. But she only regarded them quite normally, without any sort of gravity or belligerence, so that it slowly became clear to them all that she had only been making a statement of fact.

"We can," Peter agreed, smiling at them all. "Buck up, now, you lot," (for they sometimes spoke quite normally with one another when they were in private) "and we'll see if we can't make this thing come out right."

So Susan laid her hand on Peter's arm and Lucy put hers on Edmund's, and together the four of them stepped grandly from behind the curtain to the sound of trumpets and fanfare, and everybody stood out of respect as Peter and Edmund led their sisters over to their spots at the head table.

Usually at dinners the four of them sat at the head table in pairs, with Peter and Susan at the very centre and Lucy beside Peter and Edmund beside Susan (for of course at very fine dinners, ladies must sit beside gentlemen and gentlemen beside ladies to allow for spread of conversation. But that is a very trifling detail, and I would not have mentioned it at all if it did not bear on the way things were arranged now). Now, however, that Prince Rabadash and his Tarkaans had come, Peter and Susan still sat side by side, but beside Susan there was Rabadash, and beside him was a Narnian lady, and beside the Narnian lady sat Edmund, who really wished the lady did not have to keep poking him with her finger as she laughed at something she herself had just said.

On Peter's other side sat a severe older woman who was some minor Narnian dignitary and an authority on Calormene customs, and beside her sat a fat, elderly Tarkaan who made such improper suggestions to her that the lady grew more and more severe until at last Peter was obliged to spend almost the entire night calming her down.

Beyond the fat Tarkaan sat Lucy, who was making every effort to be as solemn as the situation warranted. However, she was pinching her lips so tightly to keep from laughing at the big Tarkaan that she almost looked like she was going to be sick.

What made things even worse was that on her other side, at the end of the head table, sat the Tarkaan Ilgamuth. Ilgamuth was a man of dour expression and lavish robes, so he was hardly a comical figure, but his lower lip was twisted in such a frightful fashion that Lucy could only stare at her plate when she answered his polite little speeches, for fear she would spend the rest of the evening staring at it in morbid fascination. The twisted lip also made him lisp horribly, so his silvery "how pleathant you look in thith light, Queen Luthy," was nearly the undoing of her, but with a magnificent effort she clenched down tight with her teeth and muttered what she hoped was a suitably gracious rejoinder in reply.

As for Susan, she was managing far better than she had expected to do. Of course she had Peter at her left hand, which gave her the strength she needed to smile graciously at Rabadash on her right. And indeed after the first few moments of polite silence, during which Peter made a grand toast that welcomed everyone and hoped for friendship amongst them all, there was very little to be awkward about.

Unlike the fat Tarkaan, who was now guzzling wine and shovelling down the food with undisguised enjoyment, Rabadash was the picture of civility. He made many pretty compliments regarding the Narnian dishes that were served him, and also told some amusing stories of the courts in Tashbaan that had Susan laughing in spite of herself.

At the merry, soft sound of his sister's amusement Peter felt the tension leave his own shoulders. As long as Susan was at ease, then as far as he was concerned, all was well. With a much easier mind, he turned back to the dour old woman at his left and asked her if she didn't find the weather uncommonly cool for late spring. The woman said she found it tolerable, and Peter made another civil comment that opened the way into quite a lengthy conversation, leaving his sister to enjoy the company of the Calormene prince.

"But tell me," Susan implored Rabadash as the final course of lemon ice was set before them, "surely you cannot have fought them all by yourself?"

"No indeed, Majesty," Rabadash's smile was so dazzlingly white, it would have been easy to miss the fact that it did not quite reach his eyes. "I had the aid of my scimitar, after all. For was it not written that the best of princes and the noblest of men may yet fall if they cannot place their trust in the weapons they wield? And truly, without such a noble weapon to hand I should have been lost."

Susan smiled, though whether in polite disbelief or appreciation of the poetic observation it was impossible to tell, and said she was sure he was quite right.

"But of course I shall be pleased to observe you engage in the tournament the High King has arranged for your pleasure," she went on, sampling the ice with evident appreciation. "Her Majesty Queen Lucy and I always enjoy the tournaments, though I believe we should enjoy them more were we not so loathe to witness brave men acquit themselves so dearly for our own sakes."

"And yet, O Queen, your maidenly reserve speaks most highly of your most delicate and admirable sensibilities, does it not? Truly, the tender heart of a woman was never suited to the observation of such ungentle sport; I must pay you my deepest respects for the fealty you show your brother, the High King, in attending the amusements he arranges for your pleasure, though the bloody sport makes you so uneasy."

From the other end of the table came the faintest suggestion of a snort; had her siblings not known better than to imagine she would be so indelicate, they might have thought it was made by Lucy. In any event, Susan pretended not to hear as she made her reply.

"You are indeed a gentleman, Your Highness," she smiled demurely, finishing the last of her dessert, "to so ennoble the weaknesses of a Queen."

"Indeed, it is my pleasure to serve in such a capacity, O Queen," Rabadash murmured, and with a grave look and a little bow, asked her solemnly, "in fact . . . with your brother's permission, might I ask for the honour of the first dance of the evening?"

And Susan, having first obtained the slightest nod of consent from Peter, turned back to Rabadash and said it would be a pleasure to oblige.

From the far end of the table came a sound that some people might have said was another snort, but Susan, Edmund and Peter were sure it was merely a chair being scraped against the floor. After all, Lucy knew better than that.

O0O0O0O

The dancing, depending on who you asked, either went much better than expected, or much worse. I don't know anybody who felt indifferent about it.

For Susan's part, it was remarkably pleasant. Rabadash was as good a dancer as Ethelfritha had predicted, and he made her many lovely compliments as he led her out to the dance floor to begin the festivities.

"They are bewitched by your fair face," he told her, when she had murmured her concern that hardly anybody was dancing the first set. "Indeed, who could hope to compete with such radiance?" And Susan had blushed, and murmured some suitable reply, and if she felt her heart flutter just a bit then we must forgive her, for any woman may have her head turned by flattery when it is properly offered. And Rabadash, whatever his myriad faults may have been, certainly knew how to flatter.

Lucy, watching from her place at Peter's side, fought hard against her concern.

"She must know what she is doing," she told herself sternly; so sternly that Peter overheard, and smiled down at her with all the fondness of a doting brother.

"I am sure she thinks she does," he said quietly, and Lucy mustered a very tiny smile just for him.

"That's . . . not exactly reassuring," she murmured, and Peter had to laugh.

"I know it is not how we might wish it; nor is he, perhaps, what we might wish for her. But Susan is mistress of her own mind, and I am prepared to watch her receive court from whomever she chooses. It is not the easiest thing in the world, I will grant you, but I feel I owe her that respect, at least. I have not, perhaps," and here a faint shadow crept over his face, "been the most supportive of brothers today, and she deserves better."

"She deserves better than _him_," Lucy said fiercely under her breath, and Peter, who had heard, first made certain nobody else had caught the ferocious declaration before he laughed softly.

"I may agree with you," he said solemnly, "and I may not. But it would be hardly diplomatic of me to say."

"Oh, bother diplomacy," Lucy grumbled. "I should like to go right out there and pull him away from her. He thinks he's worthy of her- that's the worst of it all, you know. It's not that he's so got-up or silky or anything like that, it's that he thinks he deserves her, when really nobody does, and I'd _never_ be pleased to see her with a man who thought he did. I'm sure I could never be happy if I thought she was with somebody who could . . . debase her that way. I'd- I'd fight him myself, first."

If nothing else had made Peter smile before now, then this certainly would have. "Poor Lucy," he twinkled at her, speaking just loud enough for her to hear him. "You really are our little lioness, aren't you? And you do so hate to not be able to act, but please believe me, if I thought her in danger I should be the first to intervene. Yes, Lucy," even more amused, as Lucy lifted flashing eyes in challenge to his own, "even before you. Now," he stepped back, somewhat decorously, "as I know how your Majesty loathes sitting still, might I have the honour of what is left of this dance?"

And no sister whose brother spoke so grandly, or made such a ridiculous face at her under the cover of an elaborate bow, could have found it in her heart to refuse.

So it was that the entire court found itself on the floor (Edmund's poking, laughing Narnian lady had all but dragged him out herself, much to his horror) and they danced well into the night. The stars were beginning to pale in the sky when at last King Peter thanked them all for gracing the banquet with their company, and said he hoped he would see them all at the opening of the tournament tomorrow. Then he turned and smiled at Susan and Rabadash, but there could be no mistaking the manner in which he extended his elbow to her (Edmund had already done the same for Lucy, and the tired girl had only been too glad to take hold of it, for her feet hurt and her head swam and she thought if she did not have someone to hold her up, she would surely tumble over). At the sight of her brother's gesture, Susan smiled and turned to Rabadash to make her excuses.

"Brothers must be indulged, after all," she said, laughing lightly, and Rabadash laughed as well. Susan could not help but notice that it was an odd sound; almost as if it were one he did not make often.

"I am sure you are correct," he said graciously, and bowed low over her hand. "Until tomorrow, then, Your Majesty." And Susan said yes, and made her curtsey before crossing the floor to lay her hand on Peter's arm. And although she didn't look back once as he led her across the Great Hall to where the curtain hung, she couldn't shake the strange feeling that Rabadash watched her the whole way.

But surely, she thought, that was only vanity's influence, and certainly not to be taken seriously.

O0O0O0O

**A.N.:** Isn't Rabadash a pill? He makes my skin crawl. Oddly enough, that makes him so much fun to write that it's got me a bit worried about myself! I think that after the challenge of writing such good people, it comes as a refreshing change to have to write somebody who's only trying to seem good; at least, that's the excuse I give myself. Anyhow, I would love to hear your thoughts, whether on Rabadash, the siblings or anything else in some way pertaining to this piece of work (which, incidentally, I am enjoying writing more than I've enjoyed writing anything else in a very long time)

Up next: The Grand Tournament, wherein Rabadash proves himself, Susan behaves a little foolishly, and the rest of them worry.


	5. The Grand Tournament

The Grand Tournament

O0O0O0O

There is nothing more terrible than being awoken before you are ready, unless, perhaps, it is being awoken before you are ready by the sound of thirty-seven trumpets. This was how all of Cair Paravel was roused the morning of the tournament- trumpets blared from every turret and along the parapets, the clarion-cry sounding out over the water. They did not stop at first wind, either, but continued to trumpet, the bugling echoing through the silent halls of the castle until every creature within it had been rattled awake. It was enough to make Peter wonder what he could have been thinking to arrange the tournament in the first place.

"Mad," he mumbled as he regarded himself in the glass above his wash basin. "I must have been mad. Stark, raving . . . all right, Pomfrey, all _right_, don't fuss so. I'm coming. Just give me a moment, will you? They don't want me in my under shirt, now, do they?"

The affronted Faun who served as valet and clerk to the High King blanched, and stammered he was sure the courtiers could wait long enough for His Majesty to don a doublet, at least.

"As I thought," Peter smiled faintly, and reached for the towel by the basin. "Well, here goes nothing . . ."

Peter was far from the only courtier who was affronted by the rude awakening. Down the hall in the queens' quarters, only one of those two good ladies was not put out by the summons. A wink or two of sleep was all it took to put Lucy back to rights, but for her part Susan pulled her pillow over her head in semi-conscious dismay, one hand flailing feebly in the direction of the deep, fluting sound as if imploring it to cease for her sake alone.

"Oh, no, not so soon," she moaned. "Please, not so- my _head_. Goodness, Lucy, don't _rush_ so!"

"Oh, get up, get up- _do_ get up!" Lucy, who had always been the bane of the siblings' mornings, had come flying into the room like a ray of noisy sunshine to pounce upon Susan's bed and shake her sister energetically. "It's the most glorious morning, and the tourney is today! Oh, Su, don't be such a grump. You know you'll love it once you're out there. The sun is up and looking simply scrumptious, and the birds are positively _bursting_ with songs! Do get up- I want to do your hair!"

"You want to what?" Susan blinked up at her sister in confusion, and in reply Lucy displayed a leather string and some silver beads.

"I want to do your hair. I always do your hair when you shoot. You _are_ going to shoot today, aren't you?"

"Oh- no, Lucy, not in front of the prince."

"Pooh to the prince," Lucy said, and once more offered her opinion of that particular fellow with an airy wave of her hand. This time her flippancy had a rather cataclysmic effect, and sent hundreds of tiny silver beads raining down over Susan's blanket in a shower of musical tinkles.

"Oh, Lucy," Susan groaned, and Lucy blushed.

"I'm sorry- here, I'll get them," she said, and at once began sweeping them off the bed and into the lap of her skirt. Susan sat up to watch, and at the sight of her breathless little sister working so painstakingly to collect every ornament, she felt the corners of her mouth tug upward in spite of herself.

"All right, Lucy," she sighed, pushing back the cover and swinging her legs over the side, "let's see about my hair."

O0O0O0O

By the time all of Cair Paravel had been woken and dressed, the Kings had made their way down to the stables along with the other courtiers who would be competing at the mounted games.

"I see it, Gillikin, I see it!" Edmund hollered as the fidgeting little dwarf tried to point out the mounting block to him. "Stop your fussing, man. You look like an old woman dancing around a mouse."

"Nicely, now, Ed," Peter said wryly, then grunted as two young grooms struggled to boost him, fully armoured, onto the back of his war-horse. "Watch yourselves, if you please! You nearly pinched my arm off just now."

A flurry of apologies rose up around the High King, and Edmund took advantage of having all eyes off him to step up on the mounting block unassisted. Then the grooms moved over to help him up as well (for battle-armour is so heavy that even the finest horseman really cannot mount unaided) and once the brothers were seated they both looked over to inspect each other's set-up.

"I think we're well to pass," Peter decided, and Edmund agreed.

"I say, though," he frowned as a groom took hold of each bridle and led them toward the door that opened on to the tournament grounds, "what will the prince think? I mean, how are we going to explain to him us not using those horses he gave us yesterday?"

"You honestly believe he'll ask?"

"He might. You never know with princes. Are you planning to tell him what you told me?"

"What, that I wouldn't get on that half-tamed beast to save my life, nor yours? I hardly think that's the tack to take with visiting royalty, do you, Ed?"

"It may not be," Edmund grinned out from the depths of his helmet at the look of disbelief on his brother's face. "Still, you must admit he's a fine animal in his own way."

"A war unto himself, that creature," Peter muttered. "Though actually, that might play nicely into Susan's plans for them."

"What, the horses? Susan's made plans for the horses?" This was news indeed, and Edmund sat forward to hear it better.

"Of a sort. She and Lucy have taken it into their heads to name them after stars and planets. She told me when I walked her to her chamber last night. Mind you, she was half asleep at the time and I was rather wrung out myself after all that dancing, but I believe I heard her aright. In any event," Peter shot a wary look down the aisle they were passing, as if he feared the stallion housed there would leap out to challenge him openly, "I believe no beast was ever so suited to the name Tarva as this one."

"I see," Edmund made a half-hearted effort to swallow a smile. "You have named yours for the Lord of Victory, so you will have me name mine what, the Spear Head? No, no, I know- the Leopard!"

"The Leopard's not a star, Ed," Peter chuckled, "it's a constellation."

"Oh, there are rules, now, too?"

"It's Susan, Ed," Peter gathered the reins up a little closer, his lips quirking dangerously near a smile, "there are always rules."

"Indeed," Edmund had to allow the truth of that. "But either way, Peter, you can hardly expect me to follow along with this, can you? Why," he muffled a snort of laughter, though not very well, "truly, half of Narnia should know in a moment whose idea it was to name them. Will you honestly have our sisters mocked as the sort of idiots who make pets out of war-horses, making them garlands out of roses and feeding them sugared violets?"

"If I believed you really thought I would have our sisters mocked as anything at all, Ed, I would call you out." Peter spoke mildly, and some might even have said he meant it in jest. But Edmund heard something steely under the observation, and it sobered him just a bit.

"Of course, Pete- I'm sorry. But you do see what I mean, don't you? If nothing else, surely it would insult the prince to think we thought so little of his gift as to let the queens make pets of them."

They were nearing the door, now, and both men reached to lower their helmets. But before they did, Peter turned his head to catch Edmund's eye as he spoke.

"Should Rabadash declare himself insulted by our royal sisters having an influence on the workings of this castle and our kingdom, then he'll have bigger problems to worry about than his pride."

And with that, Peter dropped his visor and cued his mount to a trot, leaving Edmund to follow behind him and reflect that, really, Peter could be quite scary when he felt like it.

O0O0O0O

"Are you excited?" Lucy wanted to know as she and Susan were escorted into the Royal Box, where they would sit to wave the courtiers on, and where their brothers would later sit when their part in the games was done.

"What an odd question," Susan murmured under cover of a smile and a wave to the Narnians assembled on the sidelines. "I am quite repulsed, if you must know; I wish Peter and Edmund wouldn't insist on . . ." but here she trailed off, as if remembering where she was, and sat quickly in the chair to the right of the great, oaken chair meant for the High King.

Lucy looked over at her sister as she, too, perched on the edge of her seat.

"Susan?" she prompted, but Susan shook her head once in quick warning; if she were to say more on the topic, it would not be here, where they might be overheard. Lucy made a face, but this was quickly eclipsed by her own smile as she looked out over the field, gazing in pleasure at the great Narnian banners that hung all down one side of the field, the red lion emblazoned on a field of green. They were intersperced with the banners of the tourney's host; King Peter's fierce golden lion was rampant on the scarlet, and Lucy felt a small thrill at the sight.

"Oh, it's going to be wonderful, isn't it?" She said it loud enough for Susan to hear, but did not expect any reply. "I wonder if they'll use the new horses. They would look terribly smart if they did; they're quite lovely. Do you suppose they will?"

"What, take unproven animals into a situation like this? Where for all we know they might react at the slightest sound and throw a rider halfway across the field? I should certainly hope not." Susan made the answer at once and then regretted it almost as soon as she had given it, for at hearing her reply Lucy flushed and looked awkward.

"No, of course not. How stupid of me."

"Lucy! You aren't- oh, for goodness' sake. I can't debate this with you now- the tourney is about to begin. But mark my words, little sister," with a quick wag of an unqueenly finger, "you will be hearing more of this from me once we are in private."

"Very well, then," Lucy said meekly, but she couldn't restrain a quiet glow of pleasure. Somehow it wasn't so terrible when Susan was stern with her about things like this- if anything, it made her feel rather special. She knew she was no competition for Susan in most of the areas where a queen ought to really excel, but Susan never made her feel small about it, and was always quick to take her to task when she did. It was like having a mother and a sister all in one, and Lucy felt she really wouldn't have had it any other way.

It was this glow of contentment that enabled Lucy to smile all through the tournament, even when the Narnians didn't perform so well as they might have done. She even managed to clap politely as Rabadash displayed skills that were admittedly well above what she would have expected of such a perfumed little monkey. Although he didn't fight with a broadsword, he was a master with his scimitar- Peter had arranged a special competition just for the purpose of demonstrating this. Rabadash conquered three Tarkaans and one Archenlander before making a pretty salute to the Royal Box, where Susan –Lucy's eyes widened– actually _blushed_.

Susan, catching Lucy's look of disbelief, blushed an even deeper shade of crimson and covered it by politely tossing her handkerchief down for Rabadash to catch. Then, as the foreign prince made another elaborate posture, Susan turned a cautionary eye on her sister.

"He is our guest," was all she said, but Lucy understood it for the warning it was, and managed to hold her tongue.

Fortunately Rabadash did not compete in the jousting, or it would have been hard for Lucy not to cheer twice as loud as she did when Edmund unseated all four of his opponents and was declared champion of that event. Nor, as I have noted, did Rabadash compete in the broadsword events, which meant that Peter's triumph there could be celebrated without the usual concern for diplomacy.

"And you're sure you won't shoot?" Lucy asked Susan for the hundred and first time as the brothers, newly extracted from their armour, came to take their seats for the archery competition. Susan, who had let Lucy do her hair, was not going to let her talk her into "making a spectacle" of herself. She remained firm, no matter how Lucy wheedled. At last, Edmund reached over and rested a firm hand on his little sister's shoulder.

"Lucy? You must respect what she says. If Susan wishes to shoot, she will do so and we will support her. As she does not, she will not, and we will support her. Agreed?"

Now it was Lucy's turn to blush, but she nodded and subsided in her seat.

"All the same," she huffed, "I should have liked to see you take those Calormenes down a peg or two. How will it look, d'you think, for an archer of your reputation to not compete? It will look as though we're frightened of the lot of them, when really we all know you could beat them hollow!"

"Lucy!" Peter's whisper cut across the space between them. Lucy muttered her apologies, but even as she did, a queer look came across Susan's face. She appeared to be considering something carefully, and once the look disappeared she stood up quite abruptly and said perhaps, after all, she might try her hand at this.

While Lucy muffled a squeal of delight under both hands, her brothers were concerned, and told her she needn't feel pressured to do anything she didn't wish. Susan, however, remained resolute, and said she knew what she was about, thank you, and if they would excuse her she would fetch a pair of wrist guards before taking her place among the archers. They let her go, and Lucy suffered happily through a ten-minute lecture from her brothers, cutting them short only when their sister walked onto the field, bow in hand, wrist and arm guards in place, and all the Narnians rose to cheer Queen Susan.

Lucy cheered along with them, but while the Kings did clap, they also glanced at each other in vague concern.

"It's unlike her," Peter murmured, and Edmund, his lip caught absently under his top teeth, agreed that it was.

Susan, to her credit, certainly seemed quite herself. She was as gracious as always, and waived her right as monarch to take the first shot. Instead she deferred the honour to the next to her in rank, a Calormene guest who ranked only below the prince himself. He was an elegant little nobleman with a shiny, waxed beard and yards of silken robes, but for all his finery he shot admirably, and remained in the ranks of archers long after the targets had been moved back twice and the fields cleared of over half the competitors.

Susan, of course, remained on the field as well. While the other archers looked relieved or smug when they made their shots, she remained calm, her lovely face impassive even as she made bull's eye after bull's eye. Even the "near miss" shots she occasionally made gave the onlookers the feeling that they were made rather more for show, and perhaps out of consideration for her competitors, rather than by any actual accident.

Lucy, watching, marvelled for far from the first time at her sister's undeniable skill.

"You know," she observed softly to Edmund, as the five remaining archers took a break and the targets were moved back, "if I were that good, I don't believe I could help being . . . just a little smug about it. But she's not in the least. And she's so _good_, isn't she? Not just at shooting, of course- anybody can see that. But as a Queen, I mean; as a person, even. Su's not smug or bold, though anybody might excuse her being; she doesn't brag or boast, or try to show off. She just smiles. And she's kind. That's why she doesn't rub it in. She's just _good_."

"She is," Edmund had to smile at his little sister's furrowed brow as she tried to fully express what she wanted to say. "I agree, Lucy. She really is."

Lucy smiled in relief, and then all three of them sat back to watch the final round of shooting.

Later, they would all agree they hadn't seen it coming. The elimination went according to standard; two were cut out fairly quickly, a third hung on a little longer and then finally dropped, leaving Susan and the elegant little Calormene side by side.

"She should be able to finish this quickly enough," Peter observed, and Lucy, clasping her hands together in glee, agreed.

Susan deferred the deciding shot to the Calormene, as nobody had doubted she would. Susan was a good sport that way.

The Calormene made his shot, and surprised everybody by nearly missing his bull's eye entirely. The arrow lodged just inside the colour division, and a heavy sigh went up from the crowd that hadn't even realised it was holding a collective breath.

"Oh, he should have made it at least a _little _tricky for her," Lucy scoffed, and even if her comment was outside the bounds of diplomacy, nobody took her to task on it because they were all too busy watching as Susan studied the shot, strung her bow, notched her arrow and raised it to take careful aim.

She hesitated for the usual fraction of a second to correct her aim, then let the arrow fly. It flew as all of Susan's arrows did- straight, true and without deviation to the right or left. It bit deep into the target, quivered for a moment from its own abrupt halt, then gradually stilled to let everybody see where it had landed.

She had missed.

Not by much, to be sure, but certainly by enough to make it plain who had won, and in case there can be any doubt in your mind, let me tell you, it wasn't Susan.

All around her Lucy heard small sounds; whether they were of surprise or dismay she couldn't be sure, because she really wasn't taking the trouble to listen. Instead she had focused all her attention on Susan, her eyes burning an accusation into the back of her sister's neck until surely the older Queen must have felt it, for she turned a calm face to the stands, though her eyes did not seek out Lucy but rather Peter, and she waited for him to acknowledge her vanquished.

Peter, though, was staring as well, and it took him some moments to realise that everybody's attention was gradually turning to him. Awkwardly he cleared his throat, got to his feet and announced the winner to be the visiting Tarkaan, Artoofh of the Burned Wood ("such pleasant place names they have," Edmund murmured to Lucy, but Lucy, still glaring at her sister as if daring her to meet her eye, did not appear to hear him).

Susan, for her part, graciously congratulated the pleased Tarkaan and accepted his elaborate compliments in return. Then she quietly slipped off the field, and the champions were called out to receive trophies presented by Narnian schoolchildren while Lucy fumed softly and the Kings exchanged troubled glances.

"So now we know how the land lies," Edmund murmured, and Peter, his expression a study in stony contemplation, nodded grimly.

"Indeed."

O0O0O0O

**A.N.:** I had a hard time with that shooting scene; otherwise this would have been up much sooner. I didn't know how obvious to make it, if that makes sense. I didn't want to have to lose all respect for Susan as I wrote it but I do think it had to be done, so . . . I did it. And don't worry, it will be very much dealt with in later chapters! Until then, thank you so much to everybody who's been so kind as to comment on this, and an especially big thank you to my most constructive reviewers. You've been such a help and you've made this really enjoyable to work on.

Up next: Even in the Very Best Families, wherein we will observe a sisterly lecture followed by a brotherly one, as well as the brief appearance of a second daisy chain.


	6. Even in the Very Best Families

Even in the Very Best Families

O0O0O0O

It was a subdued party that met at the banquet the night following the first day of the tournament. The music was dull, the food unpalatable and even the dancing seemed stiff and forced to the Narnians. If the Calormenes noticed the change, however, they made no sign, and indeed seemed to drink, eat and dance twice as much as they had done the night before.

Susan, too, seemed as calm as always, and her conversation with Rabadash was even merrier than it had been before. This was just as well, since the rest of the Narnian monarchs were hard-put to make merry, and all of them tried to hide their relief as the feasting and dancing finally ended and they were able to bow out gracefully.

"How _could_ she?" Lucy fumed softly to Edmund, who was escorting her back to her chamber. "How could she _do_ that? To herself; to us? To _Narnia_?"

"Lucy, please," poor Edmund, who had again been cornered by his jolly Narnian lady, was now fighting off the headache her laughter had induced. "I am sure if you speak to Susan respectfully she will give you all the answers you wish. I, on the other hand, am a poor candidate for conversation. My head is splitting and I vow that my feet could not pain me more had I spent the night waltzing with a giantess."

"Well you very nearly were," Lucy observed. "She's rather large, I think- that creature who's cornered you these two nights past. But she didn't look too bad a dancer. Did she tread on you so very much?"

"It's not that she trod _on_ me, it's that she trod _with_ me. We didn't sit out a single dance. My shins . . ." and here he limped piteously, and Lucy said she was very sorry to hear that, and hoped he would feel well again soon.

This took them to her door, so there they said their good nights and Edmund saw her safely inside before he limped off heroically to his own room to get some much-needed rest. Lucy, however, barely paused to slip off her dancing shoes before she stormed through the shared sitting room and into Susan's chamber without so much as taking the time to knock.

Susan, seated at her vanity, was freeing her own hair since she had told Ethelfritha to get to bed at a decent hour rather than waiting up half the night for her to return. At the sound of the door slamming behind Lucy, she looked up in surprise.

"Do we not knock anymore?" she asked mildly, and Lucy's answer to that was an unladylike snort.

"We'd have knocked if we thought you'd have let us in," she scowled, causing Susan to arch an eyebrow in a very grown-up way that somehow irritated Lucy all the more by its very tranquility.

"I see," the older queen murmured, and set her brush carefully to one side. "This intrusion is, I suppose, in regards to my lamentable performance this afternoon at the tournament."

"Lamentable!" Lucy looked as if she might choke on the word. "Lamentable, indeed! It wasn't lamentable, it was a farce! You cannot make me believe you missed that shot, Susan- I _refuse_ to believe it. You _cannot_ make me."

"I am gratified to learn it," Susan murmured, taking up the heavy mass of her hair and plaiting it dextrously as Lucy hopped from foot to foot in fury. "I should have hated to waste my breath in the attempt."

"Susan!" it was a howl of outright agony, and Susan, once she had bound the heavy plait at the bottom, turned on her bench to face her sister.

"Lucy," she spoke more gently, now, as if deep down she really did understand what Lucy was feeling, "I am sorry to have upset you by my loss. But please, know that I can only advise you to put this behind you. You will be much the better for it. Nothing can be gained by clinging to hurt pride or disappointed hopes. I suggest you let go of both, and move on."

"Move- no! No, I will not! Not when I know you for a fact to be the best archer in all of Narnia and the kingdoms beyond. You could never have missed that shot, Susan. I will never believe that you did."

"I should have been hurt if you imagined I could," Susan shrugged, and Lucy's eyes widened.

"So you admit you missed on purpose!"

"I admitted to no such thing."

"Then tell me now. Tell me, Susan, did you miss that shot?"

Susan's head snapped up, and for just a second her eyes blazed.

"Of course not. I don't miss, Lucy. I never miss. You know that. But I am not in the habit of glorifying my own abilities when I see no purpose in it, nor when a loss might prove more . . . advantageous to me than a win. I would never have shot at all today had it not occurred to me that I might make myself less intimidating by my loss. My reputation as an archer," this said matter-of-factly, "as you yourself observed, is not inconsiderable, however I might try to avoid showing off. I was not sure a lady of such accomplishments would be admired by Calormenes, so I thought it might be wise to . . . set their minds at ease."

"So you lost on purpose," Lucy was shaken in spite of having her own suspicion proved correct. "I thought you had . . . no, I _knew_ it. But . . . I'm sorry, Susan, but I never wanted it to be true. That you deliberately threw the contest so their idiotic little princeling wouldn't feel _threatened_ by you? I could never have thought it of you; I would never have thought you could sacrifice your honour in that way. I never would have believed-"

"My honour," Susan rose, holding Lucy's gaze in a particularly queenly way, "has been in no respect sacrificed by my performance today. I am insulted that you would imagine it has been. I made a choice and I stand by it."

Lucy frowned. "Well I do wish you hadn't," she huffed, and Susan affected a look of gentle surprise.

"Need I remind you, Lucy, that it was you who encouraged me to take up the challenge in the first place?"

"Of course not. But I thought you'd _win_."

"I cannot help what was in your head any more than you or our brothers can help what was in mine when I agreed to shoot. Still," Susan's face softened, "mayhap I might have been wiser to inform you beforehand what I intended to do. It was perhaps unfair of me to surprise you so."

"Per_haps_," Lucy snapped, and was infuriated to see Susan start to smile. She grew even more indignant, though, when Susan began to laugh.

"Oh," Susan gasped, laughing harder even as she tried to hold it in, "I truly am sorry, Lucy, but you really are such a wounded little lioness I can't help it. I am truly," she flew across the room, still laughing, to catch her rigid sister in a warm hug, "_truly _sorry to have hurt you. I can offer you no more than that- I have done what I planned to do, and I am not sorry to have done it, but I do wish I might have done it without hurting you."

And Lucy may not have understood, or even completely forgiven her right away, but she did understand that was as much of a concession as Susan was likely to make. So she returned the hug as gladly as she could and said she supposed it was all right, then, and Susan made sure there were no hard feelings, which Lucy said there weren't, though secretly she may have harboured just a few.

Then Susan pointed out how late it was, which was her way of saying maybe Lucy ought to get to bed. And Lucy said yes, fancy that, it was, which was her way of letting Susan know she was in no hurry to get to bed because she had things she wanted to talk about. Then Susan said "go to bed, Lucy" and Lucy said she didn't think so, thanks, and Susan said "_now_, Lucy" in that way that all mothers seem to know, and somehow Susan had learned too. So Lucy scowled, but she turned and stomped out the door, and Susan smiled after her.

"Good night, Lucy," she said quietly, and even though Lucy didn't reply, Susan knew she'd heard.

O0O0O0O

The next morning, Lucy was not the first one up. Instead it was Edmund who rose first, and after he had dressed he wandered down to the stables where he took the first good look at a horse he had been secretly longing to meet.

"Well, now," he murmured, looking over the door at the magnificent animal his sisters had somehow overlooked in their choice, "how did this happen, then?"

The horse, though he looked as if he might know, did not deign to answer. Instead, liquid black eyes looked out from a noble, coal-black face; dainty, aristocratic ears flicked delicately to signify polite interest in whatever Edmund had to say. And Edmund found himself compelled to oblige him.

"It isn't that I don't believe Susan knows what she's doing," he explained some time later. His sleeves were up and he was in the stall with the horse, working a comb through the glossy black coat. "I do. I have every faith in her; she is the wisest lady I know and I would trust her before all others, save two. It's only that I fear she hasn't thought it through properly, and I would hate to see her hurt."

The delighted animal twitched a flank and whickered in understanding, and Edmund realised for the first time just how filthy he had gotten; one can hardly stand in a horse-box for an hour and not get a little dirty, after all. He also realised how badly his arms were aching, and he lowered them to his sides.

The horse turned its head to look at him, but rather than nudging him or stomping a hoof to make Edmund keep going, it simply _looked_ at him, and Edmund looked right back. Had you later asked him why he next said what he did, he really couldn't have told you, except to say there had been such an uncanny intelligence in the horse's expression he felt it would have been rude not to ask.

"You're not a _Talking_ Horse, are you?" he demanded suspiciously, but the animal only blinked and Edmund felt the apprehension leave him. No, not a Talking Horse. Just a regular horse with an uncommonly long attention span, and a more than average degree of intelligence in his face. That, Edmund decided, he could live with. He put out a hand and rested it on the glossy shoulder, feeling the warmth and power beneath it. Slowly, he smiled.

"All right, then," he decided. "You came from Calormen, but if Lucy doesn't hold that against you, then I shan't, either. Welcome to Narnia," he concluded softly, and the horse tossed his head, almost as if to say _finally_.

Edmund laughed, and then nearly jumped out of his skin as a bell-like laugh answered his own.

"So he's talked you around to liking him, has he?" Lucy peered over the stall door with such affection that Edmund's features relaxed at once into a smile.

"Indeed he has," he agreed, and beckoned his sister in to join them.

"He really is a beauty, isn't he?" Lucy said admiringly, once she had slipped in and shut the door behind her. "I didn't get a proper look at him before, but now I see him, I wonder that I could have missed him before now."

"Perhaps he didn't care to be seen before now," Edmund smiled, tucking the comb away and stepping back to admire the horse –_his_ horse– who tossed his head and stood a bit better, as if he knew he was being admired.

"Perhaps he did not," Lucy agreed, then looked sideways at her brother as she asked him carefully, "Do you know what you might call him yet?"

"I do," Edmund answered her just as breezily as she had no doubt tried to sound. "I am calling him Ram."

"Ram!" Lucy's utterance of the name sounded more like a cry of dismay. "Oh, Edmund, you're a beast! Didn't Peter tell you what we wanted to do? Ram's not a star at all, nor even a planet- oh, you've spoilt our lovely plan!"

"Firstly," Edmund answered his sister as severely as he knew how, "you and Susan had no right to be making plans for somebody else's horse. It was presumptuous of you, and queens should know better than that. Secondly, I have done nothing of the sort. Ram," he gave the horse a pat, prompting a happy swish of the tail, "is a pet name. It's short for Ramandu. He," the King began to scratch absently behind the happy animal's left ear, "is just wise enough to warrant the name."

"Oh," Lucy breathed, instantly contrite, "oh, Edmund, I _do_ apologise. It's _perfect_- yes, of _course_ he's Ramandu. He's got all the wisdom of the ages written in his face, doesn't he? And Ram- it's so clever. It will quite save your dignity and his, for nobody would ever guess what it meant. Not unless you told them. Oh, Edmund, how clever you are!"

"I do well enough," Edmund smiled wryly, and with once final pat to Ram's muscled neck, he slid back the door and gestured Lucy through, following close behind her.

"Now," he said briskly, once he had slid the bolt back in place, "what is it that's brought you down here to challenge my ability to name my new horse? Don't you and Susan usually spend your mornings in that little courtyard of yours?"

"It's not just ours," Lucy countered, "it belongs to all four of us. Is it our fault nobody but Susan and I use it?"

"I am sure it would not be Kingly of me to blame you," Edmund said evasively, so Lucy sniffed, but let it slide.

"To answer your question," she said, "I came down here to find you. Your valet said you came this way (and he also told me to tell you he won't be answering for the state of your clothes if you've been rolling about with the horses again)."

"Duly noted. But why did _you_ want to find me, Lu?" Edmund wondered, so Lucy told him about her conversation with Susan the night before, and how Susan had admitted to not hitting the bull's eye on purpose as they had all suspected, and how worried Lucy was about it.

"Because," she concluded breathlessly, "if she would so demean herself for the sake of- of courtesy and pleasant appearances, then how can I think but that she would do far worse for the sake of a proposal from that ghastly, got-up prince?"

And Edmund, who saw how near tears his sister was, did not even chide her for her lack of diplomacy but rather took her straightaway in his arms and let her cry. He held her close until her shudders stilled and her sobs were not quite so violent as they had been before, then gently let her go, and smiled down into the tear-stained, freckled face that was dearer to him than his own.

"Lucy," he laughed, "dear Lucy, you would do well to think less on Susan's goodness and more on your own. You make me hopeful for myself, and that is something not many can claim."

"Don't tease, Ed," poor Lucy snuffled, and Edmund, gallantly offering his handkerchief for her use, told her he was doing nothing of the kind.

"It's entirely the truth, silly goose," he chided, borrowing Susan's own pet name for Lucy when she was at her most foolish. "For you to be so devoted to our sister that even her own assurances cannot sway you . . . anybody should be lucky, Lucy, to have a friend such as you. And to have you for a sister? I count myself among the three most undeserving people in all of Narnia, simply for the privilege of having you as our own."

At this, of course, Lucy well and truly broke down, as Edmund had half expected she would, so he could really do nothing more than hold her until a heavy step and gentle cough at the end of the aisle drew both of their gazes to where Susan and Peter stood.

Both were bareheaded, yet somehow even had you not known who they were, there could have been no mistaking them for a king and queen. Peter smiled at Lucy with all the affection of a brother who understood her frustration even better than Lucy herself, and Susan offered a smile of apologetic sympathy, as well as a brand-new daisy chain.

"I thought," she murmured, as Lucy walked sheepishly over to accept the odd gift, "that perhaps Aravir might appreciate it."

Lucy said thank you, she thought she would too, and then she stalled for some time by crossing over to feed it to the delighted mare before she returned, and they all looked at one another.

Things might easily have been awkward, but somehow they never got that far. Instead Edmund said that Peter and Susan had surely come to show he and Lucy up, and gestured deprecatingly to his own straw-speckled doublet and Lucy's tearstained face compared to the easy freshness of the older pair. This made Susan blush and Peter laugh outright, and as Peter had that kind of rich, warm laugh that nobody ever heard often enough but wished they might hear more, at the very sound of it they all felt as if they had stepped out into the sunshine and suddenly they all felt quite all right again.

Then Lucy said perhaps they might all take out their new horses, and while Susan and Edmund agreed, Peter politely declined, saying he had come into the world with his neck in one piece, thank you, and that was how he would be leaving it, if it were all the same to them. Nevertheless he agreed to take his own horse out with the rest of them, so they managed to get everybody saddled up and although none of them save Edmund were really wearing proper riding shoes they all managed to get up and stay on as they rode out into the yard that faced down to the sea.

"Oh, it's glorious!" Lucy cried as the first rays of morning sunshine fell across Aravir's flanks, and the mare, as if recognising an old friend, gave a merry little kick and broke into a gloriously springy trot.

"It is, at that," Edmund agreed, and he and Ram suddenly decided they had to run for a bit, so off they went. Lucy gleefully kneed Aravir up to a canter and they set off after Edmund and Ram, leaving Peter and Susan to ride on together, glancing every now and then at one another's horses, mostly to avoid looking at each other.

"She suits you," Peter said at last, and Susan inclined her head.

"She does," she agreed. "I was surprised; I hadn't thought she would be suitable for anything much at all. But now, having met her, and now that I'm on her, I . . . can't help but feel I've somehow come home."

"I'm glad," Peter shifted a bit in his saddle. "I rather wish they had sent something less fiery for me, to tell the truth. Had they done so, I might have made use of him. Cyclamen's more easily winded than he once was, and it won't be fair to him much longer to have him in battle. I shouldn't have minded having a proper young war horse to work with, but there's no way I could trust that great brute beneath me in battle, however much I might wish to."

"Indeed," Susan murmured, settling herself a bit more comfortably on Alambil. Peter looked over at his sister, having first looked ahead to make sure Edmund and Lucy were out of earshot before he spoke.

"Do you want to discuss it?"

"Discuss what?" Susan wondered, and Peter sighed.

"Very well, then, if that's your tack I won't ask you again."

They rode together in silence for a moment longer before Susan spoke, her tone decorated by just the faintest note of apology.

"I never meant it as any sort of betrayal; not of you, Edmund and Lucy, or of myself. It was simply what seemed the . . . best thing to do."

"I never doubted that." Peter's answer was so quiet that Susan had to pause a moment to be sure she had heard him aright.

"Truly?" there was a slight tremor in her voice, as if she was very near tears, but Peter pretended not to notice as he nodded.

"You have the right to make your own decisions, Su. You made the decision you thought best. I can't say it's one I'd have made, nor even the one I'd have had you make if I'd had a say in it, but it was your choice and I'll defend it as such." He looked over at her, then, concern writ all across his face as he concluded, "as will I defend any other decision you make, no matter how it may differ from certain . . . expectations."

"Peter," Susan looked up in surprise, "what expectations can you mean? I charge you to answer, have I yet given any indication that I have pledged my honour to any man who has come to court me?"

"You have not," Peter looked ahead, and his sister recognised the stern, diplomatic mien he affected whenever he had the gravest decisions to make, "but if you were to make such an announcement to me, I would uphold it as any law. I would even," a very faint smile threatened to overtake his otherwise kingly demeanour, "stand between you and our sister until she had accepted your choice as well. These past days I have not been as supportive of you as a brother ought, but I am determined you will find no similar fault in me again." Then he set his shoulders and Cyclamen trotted on, leaving Susan to slow Alambil to a walk as she considered what her brother had just said.

It was in equal parts a declaration of intent and expectation, and Susan, who knew she should have been touched and flattered by it, wondered why instead she felt as if the trees all around them were looming higher like prison walls, threatening to close in and swallow her up at the sound of it.

"Really," she muttered, giving herself a little shake which Alambil returned in kind, "one would think I was all of two." Then she, too, urged her mount to a trot, and they set off down the path at as brisk a pace as Susan would allow, just in case the trees should decide to pursue her after all.

O0O0O0O

**A.N.:** Another interlude chapter, really, wasn't it? But the good news is I think that's just about all the tournament I can handle in this vein, so next chapter things will start to move along a bit more, and soon they'll be moving along so quickly you'll forget they ever dragged at all!

As to writing a tournament in another vein, though, I do have a little offering to make. My friend recently invited me to see one of her favourite singers, a Celtic artist named Heather Dale, who was playing locally the other day. I went mostly because I knew how much it meant to my friend, but when I got there the music was just what I needed to kick-start a raging inspirational fire under me, so I offer you all a two-part tournament ficlet entitled "King's Champion". The first of two parts is now posted, and the link to it is available on my profile page. Enjoy!

Up next: The Departure of a Much Too Much Envoy, wherein more people worry, a proposal is made, and not very carefully considered.


	7. Departure of a Much Too Much Envoy

The Departure of a Much-Too-Much Envoy

O0O0O0O

For the rest of the week, Susan declined to compete in the tournament events. Peter and Edmund did what they considered their bit, and no more than that, and Lucy didn't even bother asking since she knew she'd be told absolutely not. Her brothers sometimes let her ride to wars but they drew the line at letting her compete in tournaments.

"You take it too seriously, Lu," they had explained to her when she had complained about it. "Susan can keep it in balance, but you go to tourneys as if they were wars, and it makes it difficult for everybody else."

So Lucy had long since stopped asking, and she and Susan sat together while the Kings competed, and tried not to look too relieved when their brothers came back to take their place in the Royal Box.

The feasting and dancing at nights was nobody's favourite part save, perhaps, Susan's. She continued to charm Rabadash as she had done since the moment he arrived, and the laughter that had once soothed Peter's apprehensions now stoked them to a fever pitch. As Lucy put it one evening, "she doesn't have to be _that_ diplomatic, does she?"

But nobody answered her, even though privately each was surely thinking the same thing; surely Susan, as kind as she was to everybody, could at least draw the line at dancing nearly every dance with the foreign prince. After all, he hardly warranted such pointed favours, even if he _did_ seem to win the day every time at the tournament.

"He may be many things," Peter said grimly as he and Edmund stole a few precious minutes alone in counsel together, "but he is no slouch on the battlefield, I will give him that. And it presents a devil of a problem, for if we were to take Su to task for paying such court to him –and I'm not for a moment saying that we would– then we'd only look ungracious. For surely, she has as good as cause as any to pay him attentions, given his skill."

"Still, we'd do well to look ungracious if it at least meant we'd get her out of his hands for even one evening," Edmund opined, but Peter negated the thought with a quick shake of his head.

"Not I," he said grimly. "I gave my word. If she's of a mind to see this through in this fashion, then I shan't interfere."

And Edmund, who knew perhaps better than anybody that Peter was nothing if not good as his word, grew quite grim at hearing this, and left his brother alone not long after that.

Such was the rather dismal mood that pervaded the entire castle as the tournament played out, to the point that the closing ceremonies and the awarding of honours to various persons bore rather the air of a funeral ceremony instead of a great party. And the feast that followed after was hardly any better.

Perhaps the very worst thing about being a king or queen is that when the party is going badly, you've absolutely no chance of slipping away unnoticed. Instead you must sit at the head table and bear it as best you can, and try not to look as if you would rather be just about anywhere else, even if it is the case.

Although Susan was better at this sort of thing than any of them, usually Peter managed to hold his own. On the night in question, though, the strain was starting to tell on him, and when Lucy looked over to ask his opinion on something, she was surprised to see that the knuckles of the hands that gripped the High King's chair were bleached white from strain.

"Peter!" she affected an even lighter, gayer tone than she had originally intended, and poor Peter leaped as if he had been slapped. "Peter, do please tell me, won't you, about that clever schooling system that Edmund implemented? I don't understand it in the least, and I was trying to explain it to dear Iggy, here," she dimpled cheerily up at Ilgamuth of the Twisted Lip, who, far from appearing offended by the nickname, actually turned a most unlikely shade of crimson and smiled awkwardly (and twistedly) at the young Queen. Peter blinked at the unexpected sight, and scrambled to gather his wits.

"Ah- the schools," he stammered, "yes, the schools. They . . . Ed?"

But Edmund was busy fending off his jolly Narnian lady, and had no time to spare for Peter, so Peter had to explain the system of grading and enrolment and the holiday scheme and a few different monies that had been donated to help set the thing up without putting too great a strain on the Royal Treasury.

"It was really King Edmund's brainchild," he admitted once he had more or less explained the entire Narnian school system forward and back. "He's very good at that sort of thing . . . he just had to explain it to me during the initial proposal, you see, and from what I understood of it, it looked brilliant."

"And it's turned out most marvellously," Lucy picked up smoothly, re-capturing Ilgamuth's attention instantly. "Such a pity you shan't be staying longer, or else you might have enjoyed a tour."

"I am thure I thood have done, Queen Luthy," Ilgamuth lisped devotedly, and Peter, his tribulations quite forgotten, had to quickly raise his goblet to his lips in order to hide a smile at the sight of his little sister charming her unusual conquest.

Really, he decided, Lucy didn't give herself enough credit. Susan may have been the diplomatic strength in the family, but Lucy had a winning nature all her own, a sort of fresh, merry forwardness that inspired trust and confidence in all who met her. He only wished she might see how they looked, the cheery little Queen and her smitten, withered old companion, that she might perhaps begin to understand how indispensable she really was to all of them. None of them could have won Ilgamuth over so thoroughly or so quickly as Lucy and her infectious smile, and he only wished that she might see that for herself.

Alas, though, he had no way to show her; certainly not while she was so busy charming the old man himself. Instead, Peter contended himself with a smile into the depths of his cup and a deep, satisfying drink of the smooth, ruby wine. Perhaps, he thought, he could bear this banquet after all. If they could only get rid of Rabadash without Susan having to cut him completely . . .

And that, of course, was the problem. For the first time, Peter was not sure that Susan _would_ cut him. Something about that man had gotten to her; Peter, perhaps, saw it better than any of them. The way her eyes danced in real appreciation when he told one of his little jokes, and the way she placed a light, friendly hand on his arm as she laughed at some sally or other he had made. It was all within the bounds of decency, to be sure, and yet at the same time it was not within _Susan's_ boundaries; those lines she had been so quick to draw all those times before.

Now, watching her covertly over the rim of his cup (dreadful bad manners, that, and I do not advise any of you try it. But Peter was a brother concerned for his sister, and so we may forgive him his slip) Peter tried to pin down what could possibly have won Susan over where all the others had failed.

Surely it was not his looks. The man was handsome, sure enough, but so had many others been. And that odd, waxed little goatee . . . perfumed and pomaded as it was, however could that appeal? The prince took more care over his toilette than did Peter's own sisters! How could Susan admire that?

But if it was not his appearance, surely, too, it could not be his stories. They were told to delight and entertain, but the deeds in them were so puffed up with bravado that they would not have fooled the smallest child in the kingdom. Susan, so endearingly practical, would have had no trouble seeing through each one of them. And though she may have admired the storyteller's art, she certainly could not have admired the conceit behind each tale.

So if not his looks nor his stories (and surely it could not be his wealth; Peter would never malign his sister by even contemplating such a thing) then could it have been his prowess on the battlefield? That, of all things, seemed the most likely; certainly it was what Peter himself admired most about the man. He had acquitted himself a hundred times over, though admittedly it had mostly been against his own men. Still, the skill of the fellow was undeniable, and yet was Susan really the sort of woman to be charmed by such displays?

Peter really didn't know. He didn't like to think of Susan that way; not as somebody who could be won over by any display of anything. And yet, if he had to consider it, he'd have said Susan, before Lucy, would have been the one he'd expected to succumb first to such an exhibition. So perhaps it was true after all, and he was just unwilling to let it be so.

It wasn't something he'd wanted to face up to, and he found, even as he tried to do so, that it _still_ wasn't. Even as Susan sat beside him, laughing as gaily as he had ever heard her do, he couldn't bear the thought that his sister might have been won over by a bit of show. Because deep down, honestly, he had thought her better than that.

Glowering into the dregs of his cup, Peter reached for another gulp, only to find it empty. Morosely he drew back to examine the depths, discovered them lacking, and held it out for the attendant to refill with all speed.

He had a feeling he'd need it before the night was out.

O0O0O0O

"Here, Lucy, help me with his legs," Edmund sighed, and as Susan ran ahead to direct the guards Lucy grappled obligingly with their brother's leaden form.

"Watch yourself!" Lucy said suddenly, seconds too late to prevent Edmund from taking a corner too closely, clipping Peter's shoulder on the heavy stone.

"Idiot," Edmund said fondly, as Peter didn't even stir. "Really, bit of a dolt, isn't he?"

"Oh, do be nicer about it," Lucy whispered, scowling fiercely in the torchlight as they dragged the High King down the hall. "If you must know what I think, it's disgusting of him. He ought to be better than this."

"Oh, I know he ought, but it's not as if he's really drunk," Edmund pointed out, and Lucy asked how he could say such a thing.

"Well, any man might drink himself into a stupor sooner or later," Edmund explained, keeping one eye on the corridor behind Lucy where Susan led the way, "but Peter, you're right, is much better than that. Instead, he drank himself into distraction. Or worried himself, and drank as he did; it's really all the same in the end, because it was distraction (whether drunk into or worried into, it really doesn't matter) that made him turn the wrong corner. Don't you see?"

"Well," Lucy conceded, hoisting her brother's booted feet with just a bit more tenderness than before, "I do see how he wound up at the bottom of the stairs, if that's what you mean . . . poor Peter. Will he have a terribly big bump tomorrow, do you think?"

"He's got a ruddy great big one now," Edmund answered cheerfully. "Comes of knocking one's head into a wall, don't you know? But it's really what he was after, I think, though he'd never admit it if you asked him . . . wanted to put himself out, you see."

"I see," Lucy looked at the unconscious face of their brother with real sympathy now, as Susan finally rounded the last corner ahead of them, and went to tell Pomfrey to have the King's chambers readied for him. "Poor Peter . . . he has got such a lot to worry about, doesn't he?"

"Hmm," Edmund grunted, bracing his knee against a wall to get a better grip on his burden, "well, to be honest I think it's mostly just one thing that's got him worried now. But more about that later," he decided, as Susan returned, and announced as softly as she could that all was in readiness for Peter's arrival.

"Has he woken yet?" she wondered, and Edmund said he had not.

"Shouldn't be surprised if he sleeps the whole night away," he added, and both queens got the feeling he was enjoying all of this just a little more than he really ought. "Took a good knock and he's out. The wine will keep him that way, and he'll either wake up right as rain or as grouchy as the nastiest old Grizzly that ever set foot in the darkest part of the Wood. Only time will tell." And then they arrived at Peter's own chamber, and bore him in to where Pomfrey waited.

"Oh, his poor Majesty!" poor Pomfrey gasped, but Edmund only hooted with quiet laughter.

"Not he!" he shook his head as he and Lucy hoisted Peter onto his bed. "Not he, indeed. Finest thing that could have happened to him, I say. A good, solid night's sleep; not a care in the world. That's what Peter was after and that's what he got. Now, if my very good Ladies will excuse us," he bowed ever so cheerfully to his sisters, "Pomfrey and I will see if we can't make his Majesty a bit more comfortable, what?"

So the girls excused themselves, closing the door on Edmund's affectionate name-calling as he told Pomfrey to fetch the nightshirt for his knuckleheaded brother, and walking down the corridor to their own rooms.

"I expect he really will be well again," Susan said, a trifle doubtfully, as they walked.

"Oh, I expect so!" Lucy looked surprised. "If Edmund says so, it must be so, for surely if something were amiss he would be the first to say, don't you think?" And Susan said she supposed Lucy was right, and the two queens continued on in silence.

They kept their silence almost right up to their own doors, when suddenly Susan turned to Lucy, a queer light in her eye that her sister didn't much care for at all, and asked softly, "Lucy?"

"Yes?" Lucy asked, rather warily.

"If I were to . . . well, that is to say . . . you wish me happiness, don't you?"

And that was really an unfair thing to say, for what could Lucy answer but yes? And once she had, Susan nodded ever so solemnly and asked another question.

"And you would never stand in the way of me getting it, would you?"

That, at least, gave Lucy a little more room to answer.

"If I thought you didn't know what you were about I'd certainly knock some sense into you," she said stoutly, and Susan gave a little gasp of dismay.

"Oh, Lucy, you mustn't say such things! Not as if you were one of the boys; and they only say such things for the look of it. They'd never really come to blows with one another, and I am sure you shouldn't speak as if you would, either."

"What, not even if I mean it?" Lucy wondered. "As I do, you know. If I thought you were being a dolt about something and there was no other way to keep you safe, I'd- I'd knock you down! I truly would!"

And Susan saw for the first time how very near tears her little sister was, so she left off that line of questioning to catch her close in a very warm, very ordinary hug, and tell her, ever so affectionately, to not be such a little goose always.

"Now get some rest," she advised. "Or we shall have to try Peter's own way of sleeping, shan't we!"

And Lucy, mollified if not reassured, laughed obligingly, returned the hug, and said good night. But she couldn't help but feel, as she settled down in her own bed, that she might do well to take Peter's example to heart. It was, she suspected, the only hope she'd have of getting any sleep that night.

O0O0O0O

The next morning dawned without trumpets but much fanfare all the same. It was the day that heralded the departure of the Calormene envoy, and no Narnian could be blamed if he gave a little sigh of relief at the thought, for few if any Narnians had been easy at the sight of their own beloved queen getting, as they put it "so familiar with that furrin' prince".

Not, of course, that any cast aspersions on Susan's character; rather it was the belief of all that the prince had come with some sort of conjurer who bewitched their queen and made her treat him with such favour as she had never shown to any who courted her before. Only the very oldest and wisest Narnians had watched Susan with real concern, remembering days in their own youth when something strange, new and refreshing had seemed to come in the guise of what they had been longing for. But Susan herself knew of none of this, and even her sister and brothers really hadn't any idea that the queen's courtship had caused such widespread concern. They, like the rest of the Narnians, were only pleased to see the end of him at last.

"And none too soon," Peter said grimly, then winced as he settled his crown over the tender spot on the back of his head, where it had struck stone the night before. He had, as Edmund had predicted, woken refreshed and ready to face the day, but none too cheery either. Edmund, already dressed and lounging against the wall as he watched his brother get ready, smirked slightly in response.

"Best not let our dear Lady sister hear you say such things of her true love; I understand she took him for a walk across the lawn quite early this morning, and that they spoke at great length for a very long time."

"She did what!" poor Peter jumped up quickly, and the room spun a bit as his head throbbed. Narnian stone is not known for its forgiving nature, and neither is Narnian wine.

"They were just walking, Pete," Edmund laughed. "I watched them most of the time and Lucy watched them the rest."

"Where is Lucy, anyway? She must be as glad as we to see the end of them."

"Oh, I've no doubt she is. But she's gone to the stables, I think; some mad desire has possessed her to see that you make friends with that firebrand they've given you, and she took some sugar to charm him with."

"She's not going in the stall with him, is she?" Peter looked as alarmed as ever, and Edmund's amusement grew.

"I hardly think she could be so foolish. I imagine she'll sit outside and sing pretty songs to him until he finally tires of fussing, and takes the sugar from her. Nothing more serious than that. Are you ready?"

And Peter was. Together with Edmund he walked carefully down to the courtyard, where Susan was already waiting (Peter tried not to notice how . . . put-together she looked. As if she had spent a great deal of time considering what to wear this morning) and Lucy joined them shortly, bits of straw still clinging to her dress and her lovely golden hair.

"No luck," she reported sadly, and displayed the refused pieces of sugar in her palm just as the Calormene litters were borne into the yard, and the Tarkaans themselves marched in, looking as fierce and well-decorated as they had on the day they'd first arrived.

Each one of them made elaborate bows, flowery speeches of thanks and quoted the poets a great deal before finally climbing onto his litter, and all were safely tucked away before the Prince himself at last appeared, dressed in robes grander than they had seen him in on any occasion, to stand before Peter and make a very dramatic gesture indeed.

"On behalf of myself and my great and powerful father the Tisroc (may-he-live-forever), I extend to you my warmest thanks and gratitude for the hospitality shown myself and my loyal followers by yourself, King Peter, your noble brother Edmund, your charming sister Lucy, and of course," he turned fiery eyes on a blushing Susan, "by this loveliest treasure of your kingdom, her Majesty, the Queen Susan.

"Now," he looked back to Peter, "I have made no secret of the admiration I bear for your Royal sister, nor has she yet given me cause to imagine I have appeared in an unfavourable light in her own eyes. Therefore I make an offer of hospitality to yourself and your Royal siblings, inviting you to sit at my own table and share in the delights of my own kingdom, in the hopes," he turned that ardent gaze back on Susan once more, and Lucy's blood boiled to see Susan blush so, "that we might come to an agreement between our two great nations that will be of . . . great benefit and joy to all."

Poor Peter was ill-equipped to handle this surprise, what with the bump on his head and the way the courtyard seemed inclined to sway a bit every time he shifted his feet, but Susan's gentle hand on his arm recalled him to himself long enough to hear her murmured plea for his consent. And, hardly knowing what it was he said, he gave it.

Satisfied, Rabadash made some more salutes, a few more speeches, and at last got into his own litter. Then all of them were borne grandly out of Cair Paravel and down to the docks where the Calormene ships waited.

"And about time, too," Lucy said, but it was half-hearted at best. For she found that it was difficult to rejoice when one had so nearly thought oneself rid of something, only to find that now one had to go and visit it, and perhaps watch one's sister marry it to boot.

"Well," Edmund said at last, blinking at Peter in open astonishment, "I'm jiggered."

And every Narnian in the court, though he might not have known exactly what Edmund meant, felt exactly the same.

O0O0O0O

**A.N.:** Well I thought there must be _some_ reason Peter agreed to Susan's going to Calormen! Sorry it's been such a time in posting this, but so many things have been happening! I'm taking summer courses for Honours credit, and really, I can't say that learning a language from scratch is my favourite way to go about it! I'm also taking Creative Writing, so most of my free time is spent filling the requirements for that instead of writing fic, but I do hope that soon enough I'll be able to get this well underway again, and all caught up to the rest of what I've written for it! Until then, I welcome your thoughts and responses, and look forward to hearing from you!

Up next: The Weight of a Nation, wherein we observe two brothers who have much on their minds.


	8. The Weight of a Nation

The Weight of a Nation

O0O0O0O

"We're not _going_, are we?" Lucy hardly waited until the four sovereigns had made it out into the yard to pounce. "Peter, you _can't_ mean to say that we'll have to go and _stay_ with him."

"Please, Lucy," Peter rested a hand gingerly on one side of his head, "don't _shout_ so. And I can hardly run after them and say I've changed my mind, now, can I? But of course," he conceded, "you do not have to go if you do not wish it. I daresay he extended the invitation to all of us purely as a form of courtesy. You need not go, and truly, Edmund need not either."

"No fear," Edmund said grimly, settling down with his back against a stout tree trunk, "you shan't catch _me_ in that place."

"Oh, do stop it!" Susan stomped her foot in much the same way that Lucy so often did. "Stop it, the lot of you! I won't have you speaking of him this way. He's not a Narnian, 'tis true, but he's still a most pleasant gentleman and a prince who deserves our courtesy. And," with a glare that bordered on sulky, "I want to go."

"And go you shall," Peter tried to speak calmly, but it was hard, with his head misbehaving so. "And of course I shall accompany you . . . we will make it into a small diplomatic foray, perfectly acceptable to all, and you shall have whatever length of time you need to determine if you will have him or not."

This promise at once appeased Susan, but it did very little for Lucy's state of mind. She threw herself at Peter with a wail, and Peter, his head clipped by her elbow, answered with a wail of his own, so that all in all they made for a very sour lot and, I am sorry to say, not very Royal indeed.

Fortunately there was nearly nobody around to witness this; it wasn't until they were almost outside the stables, where the grooms were beginning to exercise the horses for the day, that the four came under risk of being observed. They realised this more or less at the same time, and Edmund, who had let himself be dragged away from his tree only with greatest reluctance, was the first to tell Lucy that she really had to take a breath and let Peter and Susan make their own decisions. This might have gone very well, had Lucy only been ready to hear such advice; as it was, she promptly flew at Edmund instead, sobbing and accusing him of any number of heartless atrocities, only a very few of which he may actually have been guilty.

Edmund, though, was better equipped to handle this attack than poor Peter, and he was managing rather well when Susan decided to tell Lucy what she thought of her being such a baby about things. I need hardly tell you how Lucy reacted to that, and what with one thing or another they really made a very dissatisfying picture indeed; certainly nothing like the Kings and Queens they really were.

Of course, all of this was nothing to do with them being angry at one another, or given to really petty squabbling, but rather came from nerves, and Susan's bewildering and disturbing insistence on considering Prince Rabadash as a suitor. After all, whenever you care about somebody very deeply, and feel that he or she is about to make a grave mistake, it tends to affect your relationship with that person, and sometimes makes everybody behave more poorly than they know they should.

So all four continued to quarrel, and it's impossible to say how long things would have gone on like this had not a fierce, furious bugling cry interrupted them. All four stopped what they were doing, and looked up just in time to see a raging, red wall thundering down upon them. A frantic little groom waved and wailed ineffectually in the distance, but it was plain to see that no matter what he did, he would not reach the escapee in time.

Sometimes things happen so quickly and on such a large scale that it's impossible to react in time, and that was what happened in this case. The four siblings simply stood and stared as the furious Thing plunged in among them, miraculously missing all feet and fingers by mere inches, then came to a raging, prancing halt.

Pirouetting and curvetting amongst them, Peter's new horse flashed violent eyes at each, and every one of them felt as if he or she was getting a special, silent lecture from somebody who knew what he was talking about. After all, who better than a horse named for the Lord of Victory to know when it's a poor time to pick a fight? Clearly, this one was telling them that it was so.

"Well," Edmund swallowed as he spoke, so the word came out a little strangled, "well, we're . . . well."

And everybody exchanged shamefaced glances, and said that he or she was awfully sorry for being such an idiot, and they all shook hands on it for good measure, except for Peter. Peter was too busy staring at Tarva as if he had never seen him before now.

"Well," he said, though in quite a different tone of voice than Edmund. "Well, who would have thought it?"

And all of them had to admit that they wouldn't have, and moved in a little closer to see what else there was to know about Peter's new horse.

Tarva, it turned out, did not take kindly to being petted. Lucy and Susan tried it, and he gave them such a fierce look that they both quickly drew back to a respectful distance. Nor did he take kindly to the little groom who came running up and tried to ply a switch along his back legs. In fact, it seemed Tarva took kindly to very little. But he looked at Peter, and Peter looked back, and horse and King each felt that perhaps the other might understand him, which was how Peter came to call for his saddle to be brought out, over the nervous protests of his sisters and brother.

"You lot can go on inside," he told them, his aching head suddenly forgotten in the face of this new discovery, "I have a feeling I'll be awhile."

And so against their better judgment the other three did, leaving Peter standing by the head of his new horse, whom he suddenly felt might be worth getting to know after all.

"You're not such a beast after all, are you? Not really, anyway," he murmured, and Tarva, standing with ill-concealed impatience, rolled his eyes at the King, earning a burst of laughter.

Tarva was evidently no more immune to the warmth of Peter's laugh than anybody else; at the sound of it his whole body twitched, and he turned his head to study the man fully.

"The Calormenes gave you to me," Peter was saying, "because nobody over there could handle you. That's it, isn't it? You're built for war; anybody can see that. Those legs alone . . . you could go places. But I bet you had other ideas, and you let them know that from the start. You don't look as if you'd be willing to fight anybody's battles but your own."

He was smiling in honest understanding now as the bridle was fetched and put on Tarva, and the saddle was brought and set onto the back of the horse, who stepped restlessly but permitted it to be cinched beneath him.

"I won't make you fight my battles," Peter promised him, "but I wouldn't turn down any help you have to offer."

And then he was up, and half expecting to be thrown, but again Tarva surprised him. For just a moment he stood still, mouthing the bit thoughtfully, as if gauging the man who held the reins of it. Apparently satisfied with what he found, he gave his head a purposeful toss, almost as if to say 'well all right, then, let's see what you can do!'

And King and horse spent the rest of the morning doing just that.

O0O0O0O

"All very well for Peter to talk to his horse," Edmund sighed as he and his sisters walked back to the castle, "but we can't all do that, can we? Not all at once, anyway . . ."

And the girls agreed they could not. Then Lucy said she thought she would go find a book, and Susan thought she would begin some new embroidery, so suddenly Edmund found not only was he without horse to talk to, he was also without sisters, too.

"All right, then," he grumbled, feeling a bit more put out about it than he probably should have. "I'll talk to myself."

He didn't, really of course. Well, of course he did say that, but only that. After that, he stopped talking, and started thinking. Edmund was surprised to find that he actually had a lot to think about.

Susan, of course, was the thing (person, really) he thought of first, and having thought of her, he found he couldn't stop. It's generally the way of people who are concerned about their loved ones, and Edmund was more concerned than most.

He recognised quite easily that he didn't feel the same way about Susan's courtship as Peter did; he didn't see anything wrong with just forbidding her to go, and letting it stand at that. From what Edmund could tell, it seemed that sometimes women got these ridiculous blind spots when it came to men. Susan, in this case, was behaving like a total idiot about Rabadash, when the others –even Lucy!– could see that he was plainly no good for her. Such a thing, Edmund thought (however unfairly and inaccurately) could never happen to a man; why had women got to be such idiots about these things?

Still, however foolishly she was behaving, she was his sister and he loved her, and he was determined to see her end up with somebody a far sight better than Rabadash. Susan, Edmund thought, may not have been ambitious as the rest of them, but she at least deserved somebody who didn't smell like he slept each night in a flower garden.

Rounding a corner and climbing the low steps that led to the Great Hall of Cair Paravel, Edmund found himself wishing that Lucy hadn't run off; she had a good head for things like this, and he knew she'd see eye to eye with him. What's more, she would also agree that they had to handle this thing carefully if they wanted to have a hope of fixing it. "Susan the Gentle" their sister may have been, but she was also Susan the Incredibly Pigheaded, and he knew they wouldn't make any inroads with her if they didn't approach her properly. And they couldn't approach her properly without some sort of plan.

"So what we need," Edmund decided, not realising he was actually once more talking to himself, instead of just thinking, "is a plan."

"Indeed, Majesty?" queried a passing Faun, and Edmund jumped in surprise at finding himself overheard. Then of course he felt rather awkward, and stammered an apology.

"I didn't realise anyone was listening," he explained. "I . . . was practicing a speech."

"Indeed, Majesty," the Faun repeated, and Edmund got the feeling that it didn't really believe him at all, but was only too polite to say so.

"Have a nice day," he mumbled, but the Faun had already vanished, leaving Edmund to stand in the vast recesses of the Great Hall, and feel as if he were rather alone in the world.

"Oh, bother," said the king, and meant it.

O0O0O0O

Peter lost track of time on Tarva's back. It's one of the nicest things about really enjoying oneself, but it's also one of the worst, because after all, a king really isn't supposed to lose track of time. It makes it much harder to run the kingdom, and Peter's kingdom, at that point in time, needed running more than most.

Narnia had been enjoying a number of peaceful years; after the four siblings had ascended their thrones, they'd had a rather troublesome year or two spent stamping out the remnants of an evil army raised by the witch from whom they had taken the kingdom (if you want to know more about this then I'm very sorry but I haven't time to tell it all here, so you must read _The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe _instead. Though really, I don't imagine it will bother you too much, as it's a very good story).

After that initial trouble, though, they had really managed to set things more or less in order, and everything had gone smoothly for some years since. Now, however, there were reports coming of a dangerous breed of Giant that had risen up along the Northern border, and over the past year there had been increasing concerns of an attack.

Peter and his council had been spending some time in discussion over what was to be done about these giants, and even during the last days of the feast there had been some planning of the very vaguest sort to launch a warning campaign against the Giants, but nothing concrete had really ever come of it, and the general feeling had been that they had plenty of time to mount a defence against an attack should the need arise.

There had been mention made of plans for a raid within earshot of Rabadash, as it never hurts to look fierce and warlike when the Prince of a much grander Empire has come to call, but they hadn't really intended to set off any time soon, which was why, when his War Marshal came galloping across the lawn to where the High King was trying out a particular cue on Tarva, Peter thought that it must be a matter concerning the Calormene delegation, and waved an impatient hand at the fellow to let him know he'd be done soon enough.

"Your Majesty!" the War Marshal implored. "Your Majesty, please, I have most urgent news!"

Reluctantly, Peter drew Tarva to a halt and squinted down under the midday sun at the distraught Marshal.

"What is it, Liris?" he wondered. Liris drew a deep breath and burst forth with the news that the Giants had marshalled and army and were even at that very moment attacking along the Northern border.

"What," Peter blinked dazedly, "now?" And Liris confirmed yes, now.

"By the Lion . . ." the king hissed softly, and immediately swung down off his horse, waving at a hovering groom to come and take the reins. "Cool him off, Narrikin," he instructed, "and see that he's well looked after. I may have need of him before long."

Then he turned back to Liris, and together King and Marshal strode swiftly across the open lawn for the nearest entrance to the castle, heads bent in conference, planning furiously the whole way.

O0O0O0O

"War!" Lucy leaped off the low couch on which she had been sitting. "What, now!"

"Immediately," Peter nodded grimly. "Liris's messenger was delayed; the news he brought may not even be the worst of it, now. I leave tomorrow morning; we will sit up tonight in counsel, and hopefully be able to put together some sort of strategy for negotiations. Or, failing that, for combat, though I hope it will not come to that."

"You're taking the army, then?" Edmund verified, and Peter nodded.

"Not all, but most. We'll leave enough to make you a proper showing when you go to Calormen, of course, and sufficient forces to defend the castle should the need arise."

"Do you expect it shall?" Susan asked, her forehead drawn, and Peter softened his own expression as he turned to face her.

"Not at all. We have no other conflicts with nearby forces at the moment; I do not imagine the Cair will require any manner of defence at all in my absence. I leave them simply for our peace of mind."

"You didn't imagine the giants would attack either, though, did you," Lucy pointed out. "You couldn't have done, or else surely you'd have told us about this before now."

"I should have, indeed," Peter sighed, "and you're right, I didn't imagine they would prove such an immediate threat. However, we will not be caught unprepared again, and we will teach them a lesson in the process such as they shan't soon forget."

At these words both Susan and Lucy relaxed visibly, but Edmund, his own expression grim, had finally worked something out.

"Hang on, now- when you say you'll give us enough to make a proper showing when 'we' go to Calormen . . ."

"Well I can hardly send Lucy," Peter said dryly. "She would have both of them turned out in under a week."

"I should _leave_ in under a week!" Edmund declared, but after he'd had a moment to calm down, he realised as well as Peter had that he was the logical choice to send. "Though I shan't forget this," he promised grimly. "And if I didn't know better, I'd say you had planned it this way."

At this Peter had to laugh, and assure his brother this was not the case. Then he had to fend off Lucy, who wanted to ride North with him. He pointed out that they were going to try their hand at negotiations first, and reminded her how dreadfully she hated peace talks, especially when they were with Giants, who were always ten times as slow to understand things as anybody else. So Lucy decided she could, after all, remain at the Cair and wait for the return of everybody else, although she made it plain she would do otherwise, given her druthers.

Then it was back to Susan, who stood and faced Peter with a deeper, more resigned sort of concern as she placed one hand on his arm, and made him look her in the eye.

"You truly must go?" she wanted to know, and he assured her that there was no other way.

"I've let it get out of hand," he said grimly. "It was my mistake to ignore the threat they posed, and we're paying even now for my folly . . . they've stormed some villages, and ruined any number of crops. The people will have a hard time of it this winter, and if we don't act now, more people will have an even worse time of it. It remains only to be seen if I can get there in time to prevent worse from happening."

So Susan pressed a kiss to his forehead, and made him promise to return to them safely. And Peter said he'd do his best.

O0O0O0O

There remains very little to be said about what else happened before the departure of the High King to the North. He did decide he would ride out on Tarva; it was a choice that shocked the grooms, and unnerved his siblings more than a little. But Peter insisted, and Peter was king, so Peter got his way, and Tarva it was.

Tarva, of course, had to be very quickly fitted with new armour, since the armour that belonged to Peter's old battle charger, Cyclamen, was made for a much bigger horse than Tarva. The Dwarfs had a devil of a time, trying to find breastplate forms and such that were small enough to shape to fit the king's new horse, and it was a very near thing that they got them done at all.

Lucy and Susan, as they always did at times like these, put on the very plainest clothes they could find, and went down to the kitchens to oversee the preparation of rations for the march.

"Send all that beef over there," Susan decided, waving her hand at a far wall, "and the venison that was brought in yesterday. Salt all of it as quickly as you can- no, not the fish. The fish doesn't keep as well. But yes, the beans, for sure; we'll make do with what's left of the corn."

It was tradition, set by the queens themselves, that the best of the food went with their brothers and the army. When one cook ventured to suggest that at least a portion of the venison be kept for the court, he got more than an earful; the queens flanked him and questioned the loyalties of his every family member down to the child born yesterday, that he should suggest such a thing.

"We'll eat the pork and the fish," Lucy declared, her eyes flashing, "or we'll eat nothing at all. You understand?"

The Cook did, and so the venison was salted along with the beef, and packed in barrels to travel with the army to war, because everybody knew better than to argue with the queens when they looked at you like that.

Edmund, for his part in things, sat in on the councils and was privy to Peter's advanced plans, for it would be he who would travel in Peter's stead if, for any reason, Peter could not make the trip.

"Though I doubt much can happen to me in the next six hours," Peter said wryly, as at long last the two kings found themselves a quiet moment. It was late at night, and the rest of the castle was finally abed. Stars winked through the casement, and Edmund, collapsed in a most welcoming sort of chair, answered with a sleepy snort.

"I could still knock you down," he threatened half heartedly, "and then I could ride in your place and you'd have to accompany Susan to Calormen in mine."

"There is that," Peter agreed, and both men shared a smile. Then Peter grew serious once more, and addressed his brother with a degree of gravity that Edmund found unsettling.

"Ed, look. If anything should happen-"

"Peter, honestly-"

"Edmund." The sting of authority quieted his younger brother, and Peter continued. "If anything should happen to me, I want you to understand that in my place? You're to honour my choice for Susan. If this . . . man is the one she wants, it's her right. Give me your word that if anything should keep me from telling her so myself, you'll make her free to wed who she pleases."

Nothing could have gone more against Edmund's better instincts than the promise he made that night, but he made it, and at hearing it, Peter relaxed almost at once.

"Good," he decided. "And Edmund?" The grim set of his jaw made it clear he was in deadly earnest as he spoke. "If he trifles with her? You're to run him through."

Not only was that a promise Edmund was happy to make, it was one he knew he could keep.

O0O0O0O

**A.N.:** And now things are finally getting underway! Next chapter things should really pick up; lots of moving about and things like that, as people set off on any number of adventures! Except for Lucy. But she keeps busy too, I promise!

Up next: And Only a Queen to Command It, in which everybody but Lucy leaves.


	9. And Only a Queen to Command It

And Only a Queen to Command It

O0O0O0O

"You're certain you'll have no trouble selecting a suitable envoy?" Peter was frowning as he tugged on one of two light gauntlets he would wear for the ride to the Northern borders. Edmund, walking by his side, replied for the sixth time that he was more than equal to the task.

"Although," he added, "if you'd prefer to stay and see to it yourself . . ."

"Would that I could," Peter grinned in appreciation of his brother's sense of humour, present even in the face of his waning patience. "I'm sorry, Ed, I know that you can handle it. I just like to be sure."

"If you aren't sure by now," Edmund drawled, "you never will be. Now how long do you intend to keep everybody waiting, asking me things you've already asked a hundred times over?"

"You might not like the answer," Peter said wryly, and earned a hefty shove from his exasperated brother.

"Go! Dolt," Edmund added, with a certain degree of infuriated affection. Peter pretended affront, but by the time they reached the courtyard, their heads were bent together in counsel once more. It was only the approach of their sisters that broke them apart, as both wanted to speak to Peter before he left.

"You're certain you won't need me?" Lucy wanted to know, and Peter promised her, with every solemn word he could muster, that the moment it seemed they had need of her, he would send a messenger to tell her so.

"You're teasing me," Lucy sniffed, contemptuous, and Peter admitted that he might have been, just a little. Lucy looked for a moment as if she might turn her back on him in a huff, but instead she flung both arms as far around his armoured shoulders as they would go.

"Be safe, Peter," she urged him, and Peter said he'd do his best.

Then, when Lucy stepped back, Susan took her place. Hugs and remonstrations changed sides, as Susan also instructed him to be safe, and Peter in turn instructed her to be careful.

"Don't go rushing into anything, hmm?" he cautioned, and though he kept his tones light, his eyes were troubled enough to prompt Susan to reassurances that she would do no such thing.

"I am so much more than six," she reminded him, and Peter said yes, he could see that; that was the problem.

"I almost wish you weren't," he added, earning an indignant push from an affronted sister.

"If you insist on taking that tone," she warned him, "I shan't give you your gift."

"My gift?" Peter tilted his head to one side. "What gift might that be?"

Clearly torn between the opportunity to punish and the chance to surprise and delight, Susan finally reached into a pouch at her waist to draw out a bundle of clean white linen, which she said was a present from both her and Lucy.

"You're giving me handkerchiefs?" Peter teased, and was told if he was going to take _that_ tone, then he wouldn't see what was inside the handkerchief. So he apologised, and was given the weighty little bundle, which he undid with due deference and as much grace as a fellow could manage when he was wearing metal gauntlets.

Once the snowy white cloth was drawn back, a bright, metallic flash of sun on steel burst forth to meet the daylight. Susan caught her lip below her top teeth as she watched her brother examine it, but she needn't have worried as to whether or not he would like it. Peter's eyebrows lifted in surprised approval, and a low whistle escaped Edmund's lips. Lucy, who had of course been privy to the gift beforehand, merely smiled and clapped her hands with delight at the sight of their brothers' reactions.

"My ladies, you astound me. It's truly amazing. Wherever did you come by such a thing?" Peter lifted the gleaming, gracefully-curved little dagger to get a better view of it, and Susan, cheeks flushed with the pride of having picked a suitable present, admitted she had gotten it from one of the Calormenes.

"He was just using it to decorate himself," Lucy jumped in disdainfully. "He wore it at his waist for the banquets but anybody could tell he didn't know how to use it. Susan saw it and said wouldn't it make just the perfect gift for you? I said I thought it might, and so she asked me if I thought she could convince the Calormene to sell it to her. I said that he would probably give it to her if she asked; she didn't believe me!"

"She wanted to wager on it," Susan's lips quirked. "We nearly quarrelled."

"But instead," Lucy picked up the tale, "she said she'd try. She sat next to him after the feast and told him what a lovely piece it was, and how she wanted something like it to give as a gift. And I was right," smugly, "he just gave it to her."

"Your most worthy conquest all week," Edmund decided, and got a black look from his older sister that he missed, as he was too busy studying the little weapon with Peter. "What is it, a throwing dagger?"

"It is," Lucy bounded forward on her toes to point out the graceful lines of the piece. "It's a kind I think they only make in the South; I've never seen anything like it before. It goes in a beautiful circle as you throw it and it cuts up, like this," she jerked her hand in a sharp, upward motion that made both brothers jump in spite of themselves.

"She simply insisted on trying it out before we gave it to you," Susan twinkled. "It was rather fearsome to behold. And it's truly a unique little piece; as Lucy said, we've nothing of the sort anywhere around here."

"We showed it to the dwarfsmiths because we needed a sheath for it," Lucy giggled, "and didn't it make them jealous? Anyone could see that they were terribly impressed, even though they tried to hide it."

"It's splendid," Peter admitted, sliding it into the curved leather sheath to which Lucy had referred. "When we make camp tonight, I'll be sure to practice with it and send word of how it behaves."

That remark reminded all of them that it was time for Peter to go, and it cast a rather gloomy air over everybody as they saw him into his saddle, and Tarva curvetted and pranced until everybody backed well away from him and let him settle a bit.

"Be safe," Susan told him, echoing Lucy's admonition, and Peter said he would. And though he didn't say it, his eyes told Edmund to keep Susan the same.

Then his heels touched Tarva's flanks and with a nominal amount of trumpeting they were off, the whole great party of them, marching and riding in a great, grave and impressive stream through the main gates of the Cair and down the side of the hill.

Susan and Edmund remained where they stood, both of them waving as longingly as decorum would allow, but Lucy, for her part, broke from the group. Instead of staying with the other two, she sprinted across the lawn as fast as her legs would carry her, racing up the stairs set in the side of the wall until she had reached the castle parapet. And there she stood, watching the army depart, waving until her arm felt as if it must fall off and she could see them no more.

O0O0O0O

It seemed to Lucy that no sooner had she seen one brother off than did she also have to say goodbye to her other brother and only sister. Their departure, of course, was suited to a kingdom at war, and much less auspicious than it might otherwise have been.

"We must take only a small council," Edmund had cautioned Susan from the very start. "Peter and I have discussed this, and I know you'll understand; it wouldn't be right to go in great numbers when we ought to be cutting back on everything. Not that we've got much of a choice as it is; we had to send our best brains along to the North, so we've very little left to choose from. I'd welcome your input, though, you may be sure."

So all three siblings had sat up nights, trying to determine the best collection of people and creatures to be taken to Calormen. They got very tired of it, and as a sort of safeguard against pointless squabbling, they made sure they had plenty of attendants in the room and spoke as courteously to one another as they could (it seemed to help, but only a little).

"I will not take Ethelfritha, for Calormen does not know of such things as Dwarfs and I fear she would be unhappy in such isolation. I must have my Ladies, of course, but only two; we must fit in only one ship, I think," Susan decided, almost before they even sat down. "It will not do for us to take more than that."

"If it must be one," Edmund opined, "let it be the _Splendour Hyaline_. If we've only one ship with which to make a show, then let it be the best we have."

On this they agreed, and on most members of the council they agreed as well.

"Master Tumnus, of course, for no diplomatic function should be complete without him," Susan laughed, so the little Faun's name headed their list. They also added Lord Peridan, who was comparatively young but, as Lucy observed, remarkably level-headed, and the Lord Drinian, he being the wisest strategist left at the castle. Lastly they included two Dwarfs who may not have been the best diplomats but were known for their fierce loyalty and close mouths, and the Raven Sallowpad.

"For he has known the lands near Calormen better and longer than we," Edmund reasoned, "and can best be trusted to serve as guide should aught go amiss."

"He will certainly welcome the chance to voice his experience," Lucy giggled, and the other two agreed he would indeed.

"Can these really be all we have?" Susan wondered at last, as they sat and looked at their list. It bore only eleven names (there had been twelve, but one had been scratched when they'd realised he'd gone on the campaign with Peter).

"I am afraid 'tis," Edmund frowned, tapping the paper thoughtfully with a forefinger. "And though I know we have said we will not go in great numbers . . ."

"Going with only twelve of you makes it look as if you're trying to marry her off the first week you get there," Lucy said bluntly, and Susan flushed crimson while Edmund gave his younger sister's knuckles a smart tap.

"None of that," he frowned absently, his eyes going back to the list. "Though I do agree 'tis untoward. I had thought we could muster twenty, to be sure."

"We truly have no others?" Susan frowned, and Edmund said they did not.

"Then perhaps . . ." Susan squinted at the names. "Hmm. The concern is if our men number only twelve, we will look as if we do not take the prince seriously?"

"Or that we take him far too seriously," Lucy couldn't help adding, and was told that she wasn't helping much.

"If this is the case," Susan traced a fingernail contemplatively over the parchment, "then why not take somebody who really must be taken seriously? Wouldn't that help?"

"Would it?" Lucy looked doubtful, but Edmund was curious.

"Who did you have in mind?"

"I wondered," Susan absently smoothed a small crease out of the paper, "if our dear friend King Lune might not be willing to spare us the pleasure of Corin's company some few weeks. Surely 'twould be a time of some frustration for a boy, his lessons done with, and little else at hand with which to amuse himself. I've little doubt that he is making a general nuisance of himself, and that the King might even be pleased of the chance to send him on holiday."

"Now, there's something in that, Susan," Edmund's attention was truly caught. "And surely His Majesty would never send his little Highness without the benefit of some escort; perhaps some dozen Archenland nobles? Then we should be two dozen strong, save the prince and your Grace."

"And of course none would dare think us disrespectful of Rabadash, if we brought the heir of our greatest friend to travel with us," Susan concluded.

There was a smile of real joy on her face as she spoke, for she had an odd and touching friendship with the little prince. When the Archenland queen had passed away, Susan had made every effort to see that the little motherless boy, for whom she felt such pity, received every affection and devotion she had to offer. Corin in turn had seen in Queen Susan a lady worth defending, and welcomed every chance that arose to do battle for her honour (though too often for his liking, the lady herself would intervene and beg him not to bloody another nose for her sake, and of course any prince knows that when a queen begs a boon, a knight of true worth must grant it. Even if he'd rather bloody the nose).

"'Tis a most worthy idea, sister," Edmund heaved an audible sigh of relief, "and I cannot fault it for anything. I will send a messenger this afternoon across the pass to Archenland, with instructions to return the instant he has received reply. If King Lune consents to the arrangements, we will make plans to receive Corin before the week is out, and depart for Calormen the day after."

_And then_, each thought silently, _we shall see what happens next_.

O0O0O0O

King Lune, it was discovered, was more than willing to send his son to Calormen. His stated rationale was that it would prove an educational excursion for the young prince, and of course nobody questions the word of a king. But the state in which Corin arrived, muddy, grinning, and full of stories about how he had convinced his pony to ride straight through the deepest part of the river he could find and how they had nearly got swept away by the current (and surely would have done, had not one brave courtier plunged in after them and gotten just as muddy for his pains), were enough to give any man some cause for doubt. Susan, it seemed, had been right: Prince Corin was in high spirits indeed. So too was her Majesty as she came running out to greet the little company, her face shining as she held out both her hands to the prince.

"Well met, playmate," she laughed as he dismounted, and swept a gallant bow that was somewhat spoilt by the drops of muddy water that fell from his sodden tunic, "and what a state art in! Didst wrestle a bear at last, then? For if I am not mistaken, 'twas your solemn vow to me on last parting that you would do so ere we next met."

"I should have done," Corin agreed, "if we'd next met when I thought we might. But you see, I hadn't any idea you'd send for me this way, and so I hadn't time to find a bear to wrestle."

"Ah," Susan nodded solemnly, "then didst not break your word to me. I am so pleased to learn it. But then," with a sunny smile that was startlingly reminiscent of Lucy's own, "art ready to travel with us to Calormen?"

"I am! Father says we may stay for a month! Is it a war? Or reconnaissance?" Corin's eyes were alight with curiosity as he offered his elbow to the queen, and she reached her hand down to rest lightly on it as he escorted her into the castle.

"Faith, Highness, where did you ever hear such a word! We are not spies, we are . . . ambassadors, if you will."

"I wouldn't, if I'd the choice," Corin said, and wrinkled his nose. "Ambassadors don't get to box, do they? They've got to be diplomatic."

"They do," Susan admitted, just as Lucy came flying around the corner and, seeing Corin, wailed,

"Oh, you never told me they were here! I wanted to be out to meet them!"

Corin, for his part, laughed in delight and gave Lucy a perfunctory bow before running over to give her a tight hug for good measure.

"Hello, little Champion," Lucy beamed down at him, and Corin, suddenly seeming to realise that he was still hugging her, stepped back and made an awful face as if to negate whatever soppy things they might be thinking about a boy who could hug a lady. But then he smiled, for he really was a very nice sort of boy.

"Hullo, Queen Lucy," he said, and suddenly all three of them were quite like the old friends the truly were, and there was no hint of formality as they all made their way to the queens' private apartments, where Corin would show them what he had learned from his new fencing master and where he would try to teach Lucy the way to hold her fists up if she were ever to learn to box properly.

They were still there when King Edmund came to find them. He knocked, and intruded upon a scene that might have made a lesser man break composure; Queen Lucy was seated on a couch, puffing industriously away at some sort of wooden flute that she had never really learned how to play. The reedy tune she was managing was barely recognisable as dancing music, but Susan and Corin were in the middle of the floor struggling mightily all the same, for the queens had been horrified to learn that Corin didn't know how to dance. The had insisted that every prince needed to know how to dance, and Corin, who had knocked down three dancing-masters before his father finally gave up hiring them, hadn't been able to knock down the queens. And so they danced.

The look on Corin's face was one of abject misery and disgust, but Susan, a lady at heart from her cradle, pretended not to notice and chattered merrily away on any number of sundry topics. Lucy's eyes, however, gleamed with wicked merriment above her flushed, puffing cheeks, and even Edmund got very red in the face, though he managed not to laugh.

"Ahem," he said at last, and Corin leaped back as if he'd been stung. His flashing eyes dared Edmund to comment, and Edmund ever so kindly did not.

"Highness," he said instead, "I fear these gentle Ladies must get on without us, for I have a great matter of state weighing on my mind, and had hoped you might be kind enough to take counsel with me before we retire for the night."

Corin, his embarrassment quite forgotten in the face of such an honour, made the quickest, shabbiest bow imaginable to both queens and then made his escape. The last thing the queens saw of Edmund that night was a pair of twinkling eyes and a gentle wink before the door closed on them both.

O0O0O0O

The following morning, the departure of the Narnian envoy to Calormen was severely dampened by the grey mood that hung over all. The Archenlanders didn't understand the state of things quite as well as the Narnians, but even they managed to get the feeling that there was something very grim about Queen Susan's visit to Calormen, and their faces were arranged accordingly. Even Lucy, who generally managed to be light-hearted when everyone else was glum, was so despondent about what she knew her sister wanted to do that she could only cling to her brother and cry. Corin, of the opinion that all this was a lot of slush, went at once to hide in his cabin and could not be brought out for anything, so the whole going-away was more like a funeral send-off than anything else.

"Be sure to tell me when you plan to return," Lucy urged Susan, though without much hope. Susan, with rather a wistful smile, gave Lucy's hair a fussing-over before she kissed her gently on each cheek.

"I shall, when I do," she said, and Lucy's stomach felt as if it had turned to stone. Before she could respond, she found her hands caught in those of Tumnus, the Faun who had been her own dear friend since she had arrived in Narnia. His honest, round red face smiled down at her, and Lucy dearly wished they were in some place private enough that she might burst into tears on his shoulder. Instead, she managed a small smile for him, and he smiled kindly in return.

"Don't let her . . ." Lucy heard her voice catch. "Be hurt," she finished weakly.

Before Mr Tumnus could answer, though, the younger queen was caught up by her brother, and hugged breathless. She was told that he had every faith in her, that he knew she would do her best by Narnia and that she needn't fear, he would do as much as was in his power to bring them all safely back to her. It wasn't as encouraging as he no doubt hoped it would be, but it was something, and she clung to it all the way back down the gangplank to the docks. There, she stood with the rest of the Narnians, one more peaky, worried face in a crowd thereof, and stayed there waving until the _Splendour Hyaline_ had vanished from sight.

She only wished she could be sure who it would be bearing back to her.

O0O0O0O

**A.N.:** They're off! Everybody's heading for all sorts of adventures, though some of them will be longer in coming than others. But they'll all get there eventually.

Up next: An Auspicious Arrival, in which they reach Calormen and everyone, but mostly Susan, is somewhat impressed.


	10. An Auspicious Arrival

An Auspicious Arrival

O0O0O0O

Susan and Edmund did not converse on the journey down the Eastern shore to Calormen, and once they arrived in the capital city of Tashbaan there was no time given them to speak even had they wished to do so. Prince Rabadash was waiting at the docks with the grandest party any of the Narnians and Archenlanders had ever seen, and all were swept down in amongst the Calormenes with much fanfare and gaiety, so that in the ensuing rush of excitement, all rather lost touch with each other.

For King Edmund's part, he was almost at once diverted by a host of dignified-looking men with long, greying beards well-slicked with fragrant oils. They wore such voluminous garments of colourful silk that the king's eyes began to burn almost at once, but every time he turned them away they were accosted by the brilliance of the sun and sands, so that he very quickly found the only way to soothe them was to pretend he was bowing while really he was focusing hard on his knees, the only dull bit of scenery within view.

Despite the press of the crowd, Prince Corin, unlike Edmund, managed to retain his place at Queen Susan's side, but neither the little prince nor the breathless queen had the opportunity to converse, so the victory was a small one at best. As Rabadash made his way grandly toward his beautiful guest, Corin barely had time to glimpse the dark and handsome face of Susan's suitor before a silken breech blocked his view, and all he could do was listen as the Calormene prince made a magnificent speech to Susan's beauty and grace.

"We welcome our noble friends from the North," the fluting, melodic voice declared. "We extend special friendship and honour to the great King Edmund of Narnia and his gracious sister, Queen Susan. We especially," and here the lilting voice took on a heated undertone that Corin, young though he was, knew was something he should be offended about on Susan's behalf, "welcome the gentle Queen Susan."

And suddenly Corin felt a slender hand on his shoulder, drawing him out from his place of safety in Susan's skirts to be confronted by the brightly-gowned Prince of Calormen.

"The Prince Corin, my liege; only son of our dear friend, King Lune of Archenland," Susan spoke calmly, but there was something else in her voice that puzzled Corin enough to put him on the alert. He made a short, sharp bow to the Prince, then straightened to look him directly in the eye, as was the right of one Crown Prince to another.

Rabadash clearly had not expected the right to be exercised, because at once, for the very briefest of seconds, Corin saw the fire kindle in his face. Then it died just as quickly, and Rabadash made a ridiculous gesture at him that Susan softly explained was in fact a very great honour. So Corin decided he would not knock the foreign prince down right away, and instead offered his arm to Queen Susan before Rabadash could do so.

And when Rabadash looked angry at this, and even angrier when Susan chose to accept, Corin felt quite certain that he had done the right thing.

It was not until he saw the smile on King Edmund's face, and caught a quick nod of approval, that he knew it.

O0O0O0O

"Truly, O Queen, I had not thought the magnificence of this, my father's palace, could ever be improved upon," Rabadash gazed ardently across the banquet table at Susan. "But seeing you here, seated within it, I now come to see that all I had believed the height of beauty was but a pale imitation; a preparation for the moment that my weary, jaded eyes could rest upon your beauty and understand that my life's purpose was to find you."

It was the sort of speech that demands an answer, and yet at the same time, it was the sort of speech for which there really _is_ no answer. Susan, fortunately, was saved from having to make one by the fact that she had just taken a large bite of lobster, and could only make pretty gestures of embarrassment and contrition that only seemed to charm the prince further.

"I see before me a lady whose silence is even more beguiling than the melody of her voice," he marvelled, and raised his goblet to demand a toast to his observation.

By the time the table had finished toasting, Susan was delicately flushed, and Corin, seated directly to her side, was making no effort to conceal his disgust. Fortunately he was so short that most of the platters set on the table hid his face from all but Susan's view, and she waited til none watched them to reach out and administer a warning pinch to his cheek.

"Faith, little friend, disgrace me not in this place, the home of our host," she admonished him. "For I should be hard put to forgive thee, wert to make a comment that would offend."

She spoke softly, but in the formal way that she and Corin used between each other; it was a game they had made long ago, when Corin had complained that court-speak seemed like a lot of bosh to him, and that he would never be able to swallow it. Susan had asked if he might at least tolerate it from her, and Corin had solemnly avowed that he would. To tease him, then, Susan had deliberately heightened her speech, to the point where she sounded almost like what Corin called "one of those _old_ Old Narnians; the ones way before the Witch came, that we read about in the history books."

Now it was a private, running joke between the two, and Susan used it to soften her request that Corin temper his expression. Corin, for his part, shot a pained look at his dearest friend that was met only by a level look of Susan's own.

"Please, playmate," she smiled gently, but there was an earnestness in her eyes that made Corin squirm horribly, and look down at his plate.

"The food's a lot of bosh," he muttered. "Snakes and eels, that's what this is. Lot of foreign tripe. I bet they're trying to poison all of us."

But he made no more faces for the rest of the feast, and Susan knew he would make no more that could be easily seen, unless she told him he might. From that quarter, at least, she was safe, and so she was able to relax until the dancing began.

O0O0O0O

Calormene dances, the Narnians and Archenlanders soon learned, were not at all like Northern dances. They were an exotic and colourful affair, and, perhaps most intriguingly, men and women did not dance together. Instead, the men had a sort of wild dance of their own, and then sat down to be entertained by a group of lovely, scantily-clad women, whom Susan graciously but firmly declined the honour of joining. Instead, she watched their sinewy, graceful movements with polite attention, though she made a fierce gesture at Edmund that he was to remove Corin from the room immediately, and Edmund was only too quick to obey.

"But I wanted to stay and watch!" Corin wailed, as Edmund made his escape with the prince, hurrying him out into the gardens beside the dancing rooms. "I was having fun!"

"As well you may have been, Highness," Edmund smiled, "but in truth, there are some breeds of fun better left for later years of your life, and some that are best left off with altogether. I should never have heard the end of it from Her Majesty, had I permitted you to remain."

"But I enjoyed it; I liked watching the Ladies," Corin said, and his all-too-obvious innocence forced Edmund to choke very hard on what might have started out as a laugh.

"Corin," he said, as gently as he could, "you must understand that in some countries, not every female person is by default a . . . Lady."

"Oh, of course," Corin shrugged, "but I am to treat them as such anyhow. Father told me that."

"Eh- yes," Edmund bit the inside of his cheek, glancing around to be sure they were not overheard, "but Corin, you must understand, a Lady would not permit herself to be the object of . . . eh . . . spectacle, in that fashion. Nor would a gentleman allow her to be."

Seeing Corin still looked unconvinced, he seized on the readiest explanation he could think of.

"Suppose that the Queen's Graces . . . suppose my sisters, the sovereign Queens of Narnia, were to put on Calormene garb, such as those ladies wore, and dance for men that way. Would you watch them? Would you permit other men to do the same?"

Poor Corin had clearly not been ready for the analogy to be made quite that way. He turned a dreadful shade of purple, and looked about to cry as he burst out fiercely, "Don't you say such things of them! Don't you dare! I don't care if you are their brother, Sir, I'll knock you down, I will!"

Edmund could have laughed with relief, but instead he quickly put out a hand to restrain Corin from leaping on him at that very moment.

"Good man," he said firmly. "There, you see? There are simply certain things that Ladies do not do. There are things that a Prince and Knight would not tolerate seeing done to any Lady under his care. You understand? And when you see a woman doing things like that –things you would not want to see done by Ladies you treasured– you understand it is no Prince, indeed, no gentleman at all, who would watch such things."

Corin understood, and Edmund could see it in his face. He nodded, now very pale and solemn, and offered his princely apology for threatening to knock down the King of Narnia. And Edmund, who knew it had been a threat meant with only the best of intentions, graciously assured him that it was not necessary, and they shook like two gentlemen do to make it Pax then and there, with only the garden's trees looking on.

O0O0O0O

It was nearly eleven hours later that the arrival feast, as the Calormenes termed it, finally ended, and the well-fed, well-danced Northern envoy was finally escorted to the sumptuous house that was to be theirs for the duration of their stay.

"Like you well these quarters?" Edmund wondered, coming over to stand beside his weary sister, Prince Corin slumbering sweetly on his shoulder. The prince made an awkward burden, being very nearly a boy too large to be borne with anything resembling ease, but Edmund, for all his weariness, would entrust their young charge to no arms other than his own. Susan, her eyes weighted with considerable fatigue of her own, mustered a nod and a delicately-concealed yawn.

"They are . . . well-appointed," she decided, and turned a meaningful eye on the round, spear-bearing men in white linens who had accompanied them to the courtyard. Edmund, seeing the glance, turned as sharp a glare as a tired king can muster on them both, and declared: "Hear this now; no man not of Northern blood may be admitted beyond this point, on pain of the wrath of the king of Narnia."

At once both of the men bowed low, clacked their spear-butts sharply on the tiles, solemnly intoned "to hear is to obey" and took up sentry positions within the outer gates.

Then the weary party filtered in through the inner gates, and somehow all found their way to private quarters without even needing to cast lots for the best rooms (Corin, had he been awake, would certainly have fussed over this, but he had been snoring on Edmund's shoulder for the better part of four hours and was in no position to argue). Susan managed to put off falling asleep long enough to accompany Edmund to the little prince's room, and see him stretched out comfortably on a low bed.

"See him well-covered," she murmured to her brother, and Edmund did, as the sharp chill of the desert night had not yet subsided. Then brother and sister turned sleep-starved smiles on each other, and Edmund, as he escorted her from the chamber, asked how Susan liked her adventure thus far.

"Truly, Brother, I am too tired to even think on my joy," she smiled, and Edmund tried not to hate how his heart seized at her words.

"You are well pleased, then?" he murmured, and Susan nodded, clearly happy even through the thick fog of sleep that clearly plotted to consume her at any moment.

"I am most pleased with the way we have been received," she nodded. "He has shown every courtesy . . . hast fêted us well, and truly, I do not doubt the nobility of his intentions."

Edmund here very nearly said something that would not have been at all well received by his beaming sister; instead, he simply inclined his head and murmured his joy was seeing hers. Then they reached the room that all had agreed was to be Susan's, and he made her a gentle bow before pressing a kiss to her cheek.

"Sweetest sister," he sighed, and some of his heartbreak must have crept into his voice, for Susan looked up at him with something very like concern. Seeing it, he tried to muster a smile as he held back everything he longed to say, and instead simply urged her to have "the best and soundest of sleeps, and the very nicest of dreams."

Susan smiled and thanked him, and even gave him a gentle little kiss above his beard. Then she patted his hand and slipped beyond the elaborately-carved door into the room that would be hers until she returned home, or took one at the palace.

Once the door had shut behind her, she stood to take stock of the chamber she had been allotted. It was the largest of all the rooms available in the house, and in its proportions was not entirely dissimilar to her room at home. But unlike her room at home, the walls and floors were smooth and pale, and the chill they afforded was not guarded against with tapestries and rugs, but rather a welcome relief from the heat of the city streets. The windows that overlooked the river afforded her a sumptuous view of the sparkling waters that filled it, and were not the size of those at Cair Paravel but rather filled almost an entire wall.

The city itself was built steep and wide, on a hill that sat like an island in the midst of the country. Their palace was one of the several lovely ones set alongside the river running down the north face to the bottom, and as far down the side of Tashbaan as she could see, the golden lights of the sentry towers cast a soft glow over the low, flat-roofed homes. The Tisroc's palace at the pinnacle of the city overlooked it all, and there was a feeling, even in the dark, of a long summer that lay ahead. It was as if the seasons had stood still within the high walls of Tashbaan, and Susan felt a sudden rush of contentment at the sight of it.

If she wanted to –and she was becoming quite sure she did– she could most easily be queen of this. She could make it plain to Rabadash that she would welcome his suit, and Rabadash in turn would pursue it with all diligence. She had no doubt of that.

Indeed, she was coming to see she had fewer doubts about any of this. Now that Edmund was on his best behaviour, and now that she, Susan, was without Lucy to constantly drag on her arm and whisper uncomplimentary things about Rabadash in her ear, it was becoming harder to find reasons to refuse this suitor. He was everything new and exciting that she had been without for so many years, and his country was as unique as he.

In fact, all of Calormen was proving to be exotically alluring. The foods they had gorged upon at the feast might not have been to Corin's liking, but they had captured Susan's attention almost at once. They had been called by strange and interesting names, and they had tasted as they sounded; as if they had come from a new and foreign land. Susan, standing now in her room, was certain that she had never in her life had anything so sumptuous as the succulent lobster meat, the tangy pomegranates and the light ices that had followed the meal. And now, as she changed out of her heavier gown into a light night shift, scorning the aid of her Ladies in favour of guarding her private reflections, the soft whisper of perfumed air that came in off the river seemed to tug at something deep and hidden within her.

Instead of getting into bed directly, Susan found an even lighter robe to wrap about her shift to block out the last of the night breeze, and walked right out those grand windows, into a sort of walled-in garden that sloped gently down to the river. A graceful little dock had been constructed there, and it was to this that Susan walked, enjoying the soft flex of the grass beneath her slippers. Once on the dock she stood for a time in silence, watching the ripple of silver water as it passed beneath her very feet.

"You might be mine," she murmured to the river, and the sense of pleasure the words gave her surprised even Susan. She repeated them, softly, looking farther up the river to where it flowed under a high gate, down from the heart of the palace grounds where she, her brother and their friends had spent their evening; where they had been not even an hour ago.

"You might be mine," she whispered.

The palace, of course, did not answer, but deep in her stomach she felt a sort of draw that both frightened and enthralled her. It was true; she knew it, and even more than that, she welcomed it. All too easily, this could all be hers.

"I am of an age, and at a time of choice," she murmured, and the winking lights on the river seemed to be in agreement.

"It isn't right for me to live in my brother's home forever," she whispered, and was it her imagination, or did the cypress trees on the other bank rustle in support of the sentiment?

"I am a woman as well as Queen," she reminded the city around her, "and it is for me to choose my home."

It was not until a long time later that she finally left the dock, and returned to her room, to bed.

O0O0O0O

O0O0O0O

**A.N.:** That was rather hard on poor Edmund, now, wasn't it? I've felt very bad for him as I wrote this, but I never told him it would be easy, so he's just going to have to buckle in and deal with it!

I do apologise for taking so long to get this posted, but I've been in rather a muddle with all sorts of summer courses, work and family things swarming all over me, and I've only just finished the last of my summer courses last night, so today I finally sat down to write this! It didn't want to come for the longest time, but now I'm finally back into the feel of it, and I do hope to have a few new chapters posted before September creeps in. Thank you all for your continued support; keep reading to see what they get up to next!

Up next: A Fine Romance, in which Susan is dazzled by all that could be, and a sister longs for a homecoming.


	11. A Fine Romance

A Fine Romance

O0O0O0O

The very morning after the welcome banquet, a guard of twenty slaves called at the house with a lavish litter borne amongst them. Riding on the litter was a host of delicacies and treasures: caskets of spiced wine, platters of sugared nuts, yards of colourful silks and spools of brilliant, vibrantly-coloured embroidery thread. There were small chests of semi-precious stones and flasks of heady perfume, and all were presented to Susan of Narnia with the most elaborate piping of trumpets the dazzled queen had ever heard.

"Oh . . ." she said faintly, when at last they had finished, and declared that all she saw before her was a gift from Rabadash, Prince of Calormen, as a token of the great esteem he held her in, "oh, my goodness . . ."

"Never in all my born days," breathed Mr Tumnus, emerging from the inner courtyard to join her, "have I seen such a display of goods."

"Surely," Susan agreed as Edmund also stepped out to see what all the fuss was about, "this must be some of the finest bounty the Empire has to offer. Though I know him to be a man of great property, I still cannot help but wonder at the prince's generosity."

And even Edmund had to agree that it was quite something.

"Look!" Corin, not nearly so awestruck as his elders, had already swung directly up onto the litter and plopped down amongst the splendid gifts. "Look here, this is amazing! Here," he hoisted something with genuine admiration, "look, it's a bolt of silk as red as blood! And here," he reached to inspect something else, "it's a flask of- ugh, what a horrid, flowery scent. But here, now," he turned to lift a wicker lid, "here's a whole basket of amethyst. I say, they really are something, aren't they? Doesn't Queen Lucy like amethyst?"

She did, but Susan found she hadn't the words needed to tell him so. Instead she continued to simply stare at the litter until at last the silence became almost painful, and Edmund had to step up and speak for her.

"Her Majesty is most delighted and honoured to accept," he said curtly, and turned to have some people move forward to bring in the gifts, only to have one slave prostrate himself at the king's feet as ask, ever so humbly, what the king desired of them.

It was an awkward moment indeed for Edmund, who shuffled his feet and tried not to sound too pained as he ventured "Well, you'll return to your –er– master, will you not?"

"But Majesty," the slave trembled in his uncertainty, "we have been given to Queen Susan."

A soft gasp of shock went up through all assembled there, and Susan swayed a little, as if the news were nearly enough to make her faint. Indeed, everybody looked a little stunned at this revelation.

"Well," Edmund said weakly, "well, if that doesn't beat all . . ."

"By Aslan's mane," a gruff little voice spoke up, as one of the Narnian Dwarfs appeared in the doorway, "did I hear him aright? This prince gives _men_ to his would-be bride?"

"Hold your tongue," Edmund cautioned sternly, all too aware that they were standing very close to the street, where Calormenes of all ages and ranks were passing by. "It is not for us to pass judgment on our host. It is, however, for the Queen's Grace to issue her decision as to what is to be done with this part of her . . . gift."

"We shall accept and free them of course," Susan looked appalled that Edmund even had to ask. "They shall be freed immediately, and it is for them to choose what they will do with themselves afterward. It is not for the Queen of Narnia to hold slaves."

"No indeed," Edmund said very quietly, "and of course they shall be freed if this is your Majesty's decree. However, do not delude yourself, Sister, into thinking that the Queen of Calormen would hold such freedom of choice with her own slaves once she lived in the prince's house."

Then he issued a curt order to the former slave bowing before him that the gifts were to be brought inside, and turned on his heel to walk in himself.

"Majesty," the Dwarf puffed, running inside after the king, "Majesty, I'll tell you plainly, I don't like this business of letting these Calormenes into our home, slaves or no. Too clearly they could be spies, sent on us by the prince himself, and may carry any number of tales back to the palace at will."

"Your reticence is duly noted," Edmund murmured, "but I entreat you remember always, it is for me to decide who shall gain entrance to these walls and who shall not. Now I beg leave of you; I have much to think on." And without further conversation he took himself away to his own rooms, leaving the Dwarf watching after him.

For her part in things, Susan at last managed to muster enough presence of mind to direct the litter beyond the inner gates, into a room they had not yet found a use for. Mr Tumnus trotted along behind, his hooves making a pleasant clip-clop sound on the stone floors as he tried to engage one of the slaves in polite conversation.

"Sweaty work this must be for you, friend," he observed, but the slave only murmured it was his duty to be of service and an honour to fulfill his duty, so Mr Tumnus found he couldn't get much further there.

Corin, entirely unconcerned with trying to strike up a conversation, continued to busy himself with taking inventory of all Queen Susan's lovely gifts as the litter on which he sat was borne into the designated chamber.

"Look here, there's simply yards of this green stuff here, and two bolts of brilliantine. Just a lot of sparkly things in this basket, but look here!" and he held aloft a fierce, bright little dagger with real appreciation. "Look at it, isn't it just the finest thing you've ever seen?"

"It certainly is lovely," Susan murmured, still somewhat overwhelmed by the arrival of it all. "If you like, Corin, you may take it as a gift; I've little use for such a thing, after all."

So Corin was delighted and effusive in his thanks as he belted the little tool to his hip and scrambled back down off the litter, munching on a handful of sugared almonds.

"Really nice things," he offered grudgingly, "if you like all that silk stuff." Then he scampered off to see what the house had to offer in the way of a proper breakfast, leaving Susan with the unenviable task of explaining to all the slaves that they were now in fact free, and had to find out what they wanted to do with themselves next.

O0O0O0O

It took Susan far longer than she had expected to deal with twenty newly-pronounced freemen. Having lived one's entire life in bondage, it is after all rather a shock to find oneself without the protection and provision of a Master, so Susan was rather a long time in assuring them that of course they might still find work in Narnian employ if they so chose, but they were also now at liberty to leave entirely, if they chose.

In then end, only a very few did. The others opined they would either stay with the Narnians for at least the duration of their stay in Tashbaan, or go back with them when the time came. Many were clearly averse to the idea of returning to a demon land inhabited by all sorts of fiends in Beast-shape, but then one slave said suddenly he would ally himself with the queen, and go where she did, and another was quick to agree, so in this manner Susan first realised that her purpose in coming to Calormen was by no means a secret one in Tashbaan. These former slaves expected she would soon enough return to the palace, and were willing to be there when she did.

That matter settled, she urged them all to locate quarters to the rear of the house where the servants' chambers were located, and then made her escape to her own room to pen a graceful little note of acceptance and thanks to Rabadash, such as all Ladies of manners, but most especially queens, will do when they have received a gift.

After the note had been duly dispatched by messenger, it was met very shortly by one from the palace, entreating the queen in many graceful phrases to come riding with the prince and his court should she feel equal to the task during the mid-afternoon heat. Susan, almost embarrassed to realise what a flurry this put her in, at once flew to Edmund's door and barely offered him the courtesy of a knock before throwing the door wide and entreating his permission for the outing.

"It's not for me to oppose you," was all Edmund said, but his face said he would have liked to do that and more. Susan, seeing it, crossed at once to kneel prettily at his feet and give his hand a fond pat.

"Brother," she smiled, "you put my own wishes ahead of your own prejudice; mistake me not, I mark this, and love you all the more for it. Can you not at least see my joy? That this is where I am pleased to be, and it is to him I will be pleased to belong? He is not what we know, 'tis true, but he acquitted himself most gallantly in our home, and I have no doubt he will continue to do so whilst we are resident in his."

Edmund, seeing that her own joy really had eclipsed any true concern for his own reticence, had to smile in spite of himself as he covered her hand in his.

"I hope you are right," was all he could bring himself to say, "for it would pain me more than you know to see you find him otherwise."

Satisfied, Susan stood and flew from the room to arrange for some men from the Northern party to accompany her on her ride. This left Edmund to sink back in his seat, letting his head drop back against the cool stone wall as he shut his eyes and offered up a fervent prayer.

"Aslan. By your intervention, if it pleases you . . . I beg you. I cannot break my word to my brother, so I only ask you will not suffer me to see this man break my sister's heart. You know my love for her; you know what she is to all of us, and we know what she is to you. Protect her; guard her heart, and preserve, if you will, the joy she has known this past week. I beg you now; as you love her, let her never know him for aught what he has been whilst courting her. Or, if she must, let it at least be before it is too late for her to escape."

O0O0O0O

In the end it was the Lords Peridan and Drinian who accompanied Susan on her ride, as well as a highly intrigued Prince Corin, who would not have been left out of the sport for anything.

"What manner of horses do you fancy he will give us?" Corin wanted to know. He was trotting along beside the litter that had been sent from the palace for Susan's use. Others had been sent for the men and Corin, but Corin, having loftily declined the use of such a contraption for himself, had appointed himself personal outrider to Her Majesty (albeit on foot, rather than on horseback) and Susan was finding him a marvellous travelling companion as they passed through the streets under the openly curious gaze of the townspeople.

"Way!" bawled the crier before them. "Way for Her Majesty, Susan of Narnia! Way for the Barbarian Queen!"

The first time he had called Susan a Barbarian Queen, Corin had flown into a fine passion and started to call the crier out, but Susan had quickly hushed him and explained nothing was meant by it; it was simply a term that Calormenes used without thinking of how it might be taken by themselves. Corin had at last agreed not to box the man where he stood, but would not accept that this was a proper term for his Lady Queen.

"A lot of nerve, he has, talking about you like that," he huffed, and he grew even angrier when he saw how the crowds that lined the streets gawked at them as they passed.

"They have no right," he insisted, "treating you as if you're some sort of thing to be stared at! It's not as if you're in a menagerie for their pleasure; you're a Queen of Narnia! You're second only to King Peter, who is second only to Aslan, who is the son of the Emperor-over-Seas and second to none! They've no right!" And he would have immediately begged Susan to draw the curtains about her to shut out all the onlookers, had she not diverted him by speaking of the event they were making their way toward.

"Truly," she said brightly, "I welcome the chance to seat a horse again, and perhaps see more of this strange land. Will you not also, Highness?" so of course Corin had to answer her. Then she put another question to him, and another, and in this manner gently diverted him from his angry study of the watchful Calormenes. When he began to speculate on the horses themselves, Susan knew she had calmed him down and was able to recline on the cushions as she offered a highly favourable description of her own new horse, to which Corin listened with rapt attention.

"She sounds like the sort of creature you best deserve," he decided loyally, once Susan had exhausted herself with the listing of all Alambil's virtues. "I am sure you look well on her, too. Are the others so lovely?"

"Lucy's is," Susan smiled, gazing at the silken canopy above her head as if it bore on its underside the very image of her sister and Aravir. "Truly, she is a horse of sunlight; it makes me laugh even now, to think of how they shine at one another."

This description, Corin decided, was one truly fitting his beloved Queen Lucy, and he allowed himself a real, boyish, dimpled grin as he thought of how such a pair must look; maid and horse, glowing at one another like the morning sun and Eastern star.

"She is such light," he observed, and so wrapped up in his contemplation of Lucy was he that he missed the knowing glance Susan stole at him from her place of repose.

"She is indeed," she murmured, and felt a sudden, odd pang deep within her heart, almost as if the mention of Lucy had forced her to share in some measure of the pain that the younger queen had expressed at her sister's departure. "She did not want me to come," she heard herself confess, and Corin looked over at her with innocent bewilderment.

"Whyever not? It's an odd country, and the people do scowl so, but for all that they eat a lot of greasy snakes and gawp at visiting Ladies as if they were three-trunked elephants, they haven't done anything too terrible, have they? Why shouldn't she want you to visit?"

Susan, who could hardly say then and there that she planned to wed the prince the moment he made his intentions clear, simply said that Lucy had not liked the prince overmuch, and that they had disagreed on this point shortly before her departure.

"So it pains me, somehow, to think of her, and the way we parted, "she concluded, and Corin nodded solemnly, and confessed that his father might have sent him away for reasons of exasperation as well.

"Truly?" Susan said dryly, and earned a deep blush from the prince, but before he could respond, the crier began bellowing at the guards to open the palace gates. Corin's shoulders squared at once, and Susan sat up a little straighter in the litter, wishing it were possible to ride on one of the foolish contraptions without looking like the laziest creature on the planet.

"I charge thee now, give us thy solemn word, playmate," she breathed, a quick hand flying out to tap Corin's cheek, "wilt not give any cause for offence from this man. On your love for me, I charge thee."

So Corin, much as he hated to, gave his word he would not do anything he absolutely couldn't help, and Susan knew better than to ask for any more than that. The boy was only human, after all.

O0O0O0O

Meantime, a desert and a wood away, Queen Lucy of Narnia was hiding. She had taken her morning-star horse and fled, burying herself as deep in the wood around the castle as she was able. Aravir, perfectly happy to take her little rider wherever she might wish to go, had lit out at a steady, floating trot that Lucy knew, even without having to ask anyone, could be kept up for hours if necessary. It was a new, yet familiar sensation; as if this partnership was what she had been waiting for without even knowing it, and now that it was here, it had come at just the right time.

"Take me away from here," she murmured to her horse, and the dainty mare, though she did not understand, politely flicked her ears back to hear the lilting voice before swivelling them forward once more and focusing on the trail that lay ahead.

"Take me away," Lucy repeated, desperately fighting tears, "and maybe I can pretend that everything is where it ought to be."

Aravir neither quickened nor slackened her pace. Straight-legged and sure-footed, she continued coursing over the narrow track that Lucy had chosen, bearing her rider as far away from the Cair as the path would permit. When at last Lucy drew a halt, there wasn't anyone else in sight but the two of them. With a little gasp she slid down from Aravir's back and promptly flung her arms around the neck of the little horse, who took it all in stride. Even as the young queen began to sob and entreat Aslan to bring her sister back, Aravir kept all four feet on the ground and let her mistress cry.

"I want her happy, I really do," Lucy sniffled defensively, "but I want her home even more. He's not what she wants to think he is; he can't be. I don't trust him at all, but I'm so frightened she'll be taken in. I'm frightened she already has been. I think sometimes that she feels she doesn't fit . . . that she wants something more her own. And I'm just so scared that she just wants to be rid of us so badly, she might . . ."

She shuddered, and Arvir nibbled fondly on the queen's sleeve until Lucy was able to get hold of herself and straighten up. As Aravir watched, she found a handkerchief in her sleeve and tried to do tidy things to her face. Then she tucked it away and tried to put on a brave face for her horse, who looked merely interested in all the goings-on.

"I feel rather a child," she mumbled, and got a swift butt in the stomach from her horse's head that nearly knocked the wind out of her.

"Oof! All right, then," she laughed, moving around to swing up neatly onto Aravir's back once more, "all right, I shan't share my self-doubts with you any longer. Come on then, pretty one; let's away to the Sea and have some real fun, before we're missed."

And Aravir tossed her head and straightaway picked up that lovely trot once more, only too happy to obey.

O0O0O0O

**A.N.:** Lots of author's notes here this time! Bear with me.

First of all, I'm so sorry things have dragged so slowly to this point. I kept putting off posting this because I wanted to have the next chapter written first, but the next chapter just won't get written, and now classes have begun again so I'm really not sure when it will happen! Therefore, in the interest of keeping things moving along at all, I posted this.

Secondly, I wanted to take a moment to respond to a persistent question concerning the ages of the Pevensies in the story. I wasn't aware until very recently that there were apocryphal writings in which Lewis had indicated a very precise timeline for Narnia, elsewise I would definitely have adhered to that. As things stand, though (and yes I know I may have indicated slightly different ages to different people at varying times!) the closest I can come to nailing down how I see them is Lucy as 16, Edmund as 19, Susan as 22 and Peter as 24, give or take a year for everybody. And of course if you've read them as older or younger or even a mix of both then I certainly have no quarrel with that, since I haven't bothered to think on it too much myself; they were just sort of _there_.

Finally, to the many people who have contacted me to ask about the Calormene horses, I thought I ought to clear things up here and now by saying that I see and write them as Arabians. I have a long-standing love affair with Arabian horses, and could think of no better treasure to offer anyone from any land.

(Oh, and an especially huge thank you to Katie, who sent me the radio-drama version of HHB. It has entertained me to no end these past few days, and finally gave me the kick I needed to get this posted)

Up next: The Scales Must Fall, in which a prayer is answered and a queen is forced to face facts.


	12. The Scales Must Fall

The Scales Must Fall

O0O0O0O

"Well it's big enough, isn't it?" Corin, munching on a fig he has pulled from his pocket, looked around them as they stood in the courtyard of the prince's palace and awaited the honour of Rabadash's arrival. Punctuality, it seemed, was not one of His Highness's strong points, and this may have lent the slightest edge to Susan's temper as she warned the little prince to hold his tongue.

"What?" Corin scrunched up his nose, and swallowed a mouthful of the fruit he held. "I only said-"

"'Twas not what you said, little prince, but the tone in which you said it," Susan frowned, halting what had threatened to become nervous pacing beside the litter in which she arrived. Her eyes drifted to the fig. "Wherever did-"

"Oh, this?" Corin indicated it. "Brought it from the palace. I've apricots, too," he checked his doublet. "And I think there are some almonds- would you care for some?" he wondered. "Ought I have offered-"

"No, no," even through the tension building within her, Susan found she had to smile. "I have little appetite at the moment, Highness, but my thanks for your consideration. Now please," her voice softened, but her eyes remained worried, "I ask that you mind all you say when we are out of safe counsel in our own chambers. Diplomacy is a tricky feat at the best of times, but in this land you must see it is of paramount importance."

At this, Corin's face wrinkled in confusion.

"I thought he was rather half in love with you," he said. "I mean, he's certainly been chasing after you well enough, sending you all sorts of gifts and such. Isn't that what princes do when they want to court somebody?"

"Oft times," Susan murmured, still watching anxiously to see that they were not overheard. "However, no monarch in a country not her own can ever forget that she represents-" and here she broke off, because at last trumpeters appeared. A general fanfare was played and Rabadash and what seemed a small army of courtiers appeared at the top of the courtyard steps and made their way down in what they doubtless thought was true magnificence, but really only looked a very self-important display of finery that in no way diminished the fact they had kept their guests waiting some three quarters of an hour.

"O Queen," Rabadash made one of the Calormene gestures of what Susan chose to believe was contrition, but was in fact merely an indication of his pleasure at seeing her, "can it be that you grow lovelier each moment within my sight?"

"Well if that were true," Corin mused, "she'd must needs have been a born a very ugly-" and here he stopped abruptly, since Susan had seized the remainder of the fig from his hand and stuffed it into his mouth. As Corin chewed awkwardly, Susan smiled at the prince and advanced from the side of the litter.

"His Highness's flattery overwhelms," she observed. "Truly, the prince of Calormen might make any lady feel a queen by the very beauty of his devotion and the poetry of his words."

Corin, behind her, could be heard to choke on his fig.

"A woman whose beauty of face is rivalled only by the loveliness of her voice," the prince proclaimed, and around him all his courtiers bobbed their helmeted heads in solemn agreement. "How well it was written by the poet who said that he who finds a woman fair of face and voice has found a treasure even the gods must covet."

For just the barest second Susan's tongue seemed to want to betray her, and she came perilously close to blushing scarlet and ducking her head whilst mumbling "Well, I don't know about _that_." Then the madness passed, and she made an appropriate rejoinder which was followed by the prince's formal invitation to Susan and her escort to take the air with him on horseback, which invitation Susan naturally accepted on behalf of them all.

They were then escorted through the palace to a slightly smaller courtyard near the back, this one boasting gates that led out into a small forest of cypress and cedar. Awaiting them were half a dozen horses of the same desert breed that the prince had presented to the Narnian monarchs during his visit, each one displaying the same sort of high temper that those first four had. Susan caught her breath at the sight of them, and beside her even Corin was impressed.

"I regret, Majesty," Rabadash spoke smoothly as they approached the animals, "that I had not thought you would bring with you an escort greater in number than two; else I should certainly have ordered another horse readied. Would it perhaps amuse the little prince to remain at the palace as we ride?"

It would not suit him at all, but Susan did not say as much, and trod on Corin's foot to be certain that he would not say so either. Then she smiled graciously, and suggested that the little prince might ride on the horse Rabadash had selected for her.

"'Twould break my heart," she explained, "to deprive him of such an outing."

Even through his anger at being so casually dismissed by their host, Corin had to admire the strategy of Susan's offer. Naturally no half-decent man could consent to his lovely guest struggling along with the double burden of both a strange horse and a young boy riding with her, and so all was halted as Rabadash sent away for another animal to be readied.

At the arrival of the snorting, blowing beast he had requested, a massive grey animal barely restrained by the large groom who held his head, Corin was so thrilled at the prospect of such a challenge that he forgot his anger and his nagging suspicion that Rabadash had somehow contrived to leave him out of things on purpose. Susan, however, took one look at the horse and was hard-pressed to conceal her horror.

"My little liege," she murmured, catching Corin's sleeve before he could rush forward to examine the horse better, "'twere perhaps prudent to ask one of our Narnian lords to seat this creature instead. He seems to be of . . . excellent spirit."

"Yes, I know; isn't he _marvellous_?" Corin's whole face shone, and Susan bit her lip in consternation. A small company of Calormene outriders on armed with spears appeared near the gates in readiness for the excursion, and Rabadash gestured that a mounting block be brought to the side of the horse he declared was to be Susan's mount. The necessity of seating her horse forced the queen to cut her further lecture short to just a handful of words.

"Have a care," she entreated, then crossed the yard to mount the much calmer mare, who tossed her head just twice as Susan settled herself and took up the reins with hands that brooked no argument. Corin took advantage of her departure to cross to the big grey, and beamed up at the swarthy, bearded face of the groom.

"He's something else, isn't he?" the prince observed, and the groom grunted in reply. Then, seeing that Lord Peridan was already moving toward him in a likely bid to exchange mounts, Corin made quick to fit his foot to the stirrup (which was a good deal above the ground, for all it had been let down as far is it would go) and swung up, up, up higher than he had imagined, seating himself across the broad back of the horse.

The beast was larger than all the others in the yard, and though his lines and certainly his temper were those of the desert horses, there seemed also to be some larger breed within him, since his size far outstripped that of all others they had seen since their arrival. Corin felt the muscles surge and bunch beneath his legs, and his face broke out in a wide grin. His father had promised him his first proper horse on his next birthday, and this was exactly the sort of animal he had hoped for. Corin enjoyed a challenge.

Susan did not enjoy a challenge; nor did she appreciate seeing others accept them. On guiding her own mount through a series of brief bends to get a better feel for her temperament, the Narnian queen saw Corin's choice of steed and turned quite pale. She was hardly in a position to argue, however, since the outriders were falling into position, the two Narnian Lords had made their choice of mounts, and the Calormene prince made an invitational remark as two courtiers of his own took charge of the remaining two horses. Biting her lip in consternation, Susan turned her mare toward the gates and fell in step beside Rabadash's horse as the whole party set out, through the courtyard wall and into the forest that awaited them.

She only hoped that part of Corin's diplomatic education in Calormen would not involve the courteous treatment of whatever physician they would surely be obliged to fetch to bind his skull, should the beast he rode see fit to throw him off.

O0O0O0O

"Like you well this scenery Drinian?" Peridan, having spent some time getting a feel for the animal he rode, now felt reasonably confident in the direction of their path, and ventured making conversation with the man whose estate back home bordered his own. Drinian, for his part, shifted uncertainly in his saddle, cast an eye about him and lowered his voice to make his reply.

"Cedars and firs are well enough when left in their natural state, I'll grant you. But when fashioned into weapons such as are borne by this guard about us, I do confess to some uneasiness of spirit."

"There is truth in what you say there, to be sure," Peridan acknowledged, then turned his head and called out to one of the outriders. "How now, friend. What banditry do you expect in the prince's own forest, then, that you ride armed with such spears?"

The outrider, for his part, said nothing whatsoever, and Peridan was on the verge of thinking him unable to understand when one of the two Calormene courtiers drew abreast of the Narnian lords, and made an answer.

"I fear the outriders will be unable to converse," he explained, "for they have been rendered mute, that they might betray no confidences exchanged while the prince rides with his consort. As for the banditry you mentioned, the violence against which they guard comes not from man, but beast. There are lions about, and jackals, and these have been known to attack parties less guarded than our own."

The significance of this statement took some brief time to weigh upon the Narnian lords, but once it had sunk in, both turned rather ashy about the face. Peridan, who was a trifle younger than his companion, actually thought he might be sick. Drinian, who had a few years on the younger man and had seen some less savoury things in his time, put a delicate question to the surly fellow at their side.

"'Rendered' mute?" he repeated. "By this, you refer to a process by which . . ?"

"The slaves have their tongues made incapable of speech," the man grunted. "It is done in an effort to keep them trustworthy. These are the slaves that our Tisroc, may he live forever, has decreed are to be used at the most secret councils, that none may use our words against us." And his eyes glittered, and he looked very fierce and perhaps a trifle tyrannical as he spoke.

"I see," Drinian said quietly, and he did, indeed. Peridan, for his part, made an inarticulate noise that he quickly covered with a cough, and then a deeper sound, such as you are likely to make when you are trying very hard not to lose control of the very rich breakfast you ate just a few hours before.

To distract attention from this, Drinian then looked back to where Corin was perched high on the withers of the prancing, snorting grey he had mounted in the courtyard.

"How fare you, Highness?" he called, and Corin, who would not for the world have owned up to the fact that his legs were starting to ache and every muscle in his arms was beginning to tremble from the strain of simply reminding the animal that he had a rider at all, spared the breath to say that he was getting along famously.

If Drinian doubted the veracity of this claim, he was too much a gentleman to say so aloud. Instead he gave Corin one final, concerned look, then turned his gaze forward once more. Though he was far too seasoned in diplomacy to say so aloud, he could not help but think to himself that it would be only through the grace of Aslan himself that their party could hope to make it out of Calormen without mishap.

O0O0O0O

"Truly," Susan craned her neck to fully appreciate the sights around them, "I have rarely seen a forest that looks so . . . tamed. 'Tis a marvel, indeed," she concluded, and smiled at her host, who smiled back in the practiced fashion that was his way.

"It is an honour indeed to receive praise from the lips of a beautiful woman," the prince decided. "That you appreciate the beauty of the order created out of what would otherwise have been erratic and . . . unrestrained is merely further testament to your great discernment."

Susan coloured delicately at the flattery, and turned her gaze from the planted trees to the ears of her horse. The prince then paid a flowery compliment to the becoming modesty of which her embarrassment spoke, and Susan was relieved he had not fully understood the implication of her remark that the orderly arrangement of the trees seemed a marvel.

True, she well appreciated the effort it must have taken to plant everything and keep it so well groomed, but that was because she came from a land in which the trees themselves decreed where and how they would grow. She rode with her family in woods that were so great in stature and wild in nature that they sometimes blotted out the very sun from reaching the forest floor, and while occasionally she grew annoyed at the way her gowns would snag and tear on outstretched branches, there still seemed something more reassuring in the ways of Narnian trees than there did in this precise, well-ordered Calormene attempt at a forest.

Rather than have to voice this thought aloud, however, Susan turned about in her saddle that she, too, might see how Corin fared. Calling out to him, she asked how well he liked this sport, and Corin, who was exhausting himself with the strain of controlling an animal who, for all its rider's determination, was far too much horse for him to control, took one very precious moment to tell her that it was certainly sport.

Then his eyes flew wide open, because the sweat that that gathered on his palms finally proved too much for even the reins to withstand, and his hands slipped, giving the horse his head. With a triumphant snort, the animal twisted and kicked, then put every ounce of his considerable strength into what had to be (if you looked at it objectively, which Corin was unfortunately in no position to do) one of the finest full-body bucks that had yet been seen in that part of the country.

I do wish you could have been there to see it; the whole length of the animal put its every fibre into kicking the hindquarters as high and hard as possible, the result being that Corin, already wearied from the strain of the ride, hadn't a prayer of staying on. He flew through the air, somersaulted twice (and fine somersaults they were, too) before mercifully coming to land in a low, prickly ground cover that, for all it broke his fall and saved him splitting his head, seemed hardly a mercy to the prince at the time since it scratched him well all over before he had managed to climb out.

"Corin!" Susan screamed, and turned quite pale, but before she could make to dismount the prince was up and rushing forward, beaming merrily up at his lady queen.

"I'm quite all right, you see!" he laughed. "It would be more than a horse and a bit of pricker-bush that did me in!"

Susan, for all her relief, could not quite manage a smile. Instead she murmured that it did her heart good to see him well, then rounded on Rabadash with a dangerous spark in her eye.

"That horse," she began, and had been about to say that Rabadash should have well known that the animal was too much for such a small boy to handle (it being beyond the grace of Susan's personality to outright accuse the prince of deliberately putting Corin on a horse beyond his abilities) when Rabadash interrupted her smoothly.

"Yes, naturally, Majesty, you are quite right; it shall be made an end of here and now."

Susan drew back, astonished.

"I asked for no such thing," she stammered at length, and the prince of Calormen nodded solemnly.

"As is to be expected, of such a gentle lady," he agreed. "However I see in your concern for the boy that the animal has committed a crime against both Archenland and Narnia, as well as the Empire of my own father (may-he-live-forever) in defying the wishes of a Royal rider. Therefore it cannot be permitted to live."

Susan, still struggling to follow his reasoning (if such a generous word may be applied to such a bit of foolishness) managed to say that she was perhaps dazed from the heat of the sun, but for all that she tried, could not understand how the prince felt death a fitting punishment for an animal that had done no more or less than throw a rider unprepared to handle it.

"It has defied its purpose," Rabadash declared. "Worse than that, it has dared to throw a prince; such an act, O Queen, you must surely see is tantamount to the crime of treason."

"But he is only a beast!" Susan was appalled. "He has not the understanding that would permit him to see this; he cannot be expected to know a prince from a beggar's brat! Surely, Highness, you must see that-"

"I must _see_ nothing," Rabadash snarled, and for just a moment his whole face twisted in an expression that caused Susan to shrink back, "that I do not _wish_ to see." Then he turned to face the assembled company, and raised his voice that they might all hear him.

"No beast that defies its master may be permitted to live," he decreed, and made the smallest of gestures that seemed understood by at least one outrider, who advanced on the horse and, with one motion, drove his spear through the riderless animal's throat.

Blood splashed forth, staining the dappled coat and proclaiming the end of a life even before the horse had hit the ground. The members of the Narnian company sat in shock, staring, as the Calormene courtiers looked generally disinterested in the whole mess, and all outriders looked to their prince to see what his next wish might be.

"Come," Rabadash invited smoothly, turning to face an ashen, shaken Susan. "Let us adjourn once more to my palace; there is a banquet prepared for us that I am certain will delight you well."

"I-" Susan was unable to tear her eyes from the body of the dying horse. Her hands shook, and her own horse danced both in nervous response to the pressure on the reins and the alarming scent of fresh blood. "I- my liege," she swallowed, shaking herself solemn with an effort, "what of the Prince Corin? You have," in tones she hoped desperately did not betray her horror, "deprived him of his mount."

"An outrider will return on foot," Rabadash said dismissively. "The little prince may take his horse." Then he turned his own horse and gestured at the path ahead in a manner that somehow made quite clear he would brook no further delay. "My Queen?"

And Susan, face pale but head held high, gathered the reins and guided her horse forward, in the direction he had indicated. Refusal at this point hardly seemed an option.

As Corin swung up on the vacated horse and fell in between Peridan and Drinian, he, too, was pale and exceptionally silent. The two Narnian lords exchanged troubled glances over the head of the younger boy, and as they all started on their way back to the castle, Drinian nodded at the stiff shoulders of their Queen, who rode ahead.

"Best wait until later to tell her about the mutes," he mumbled, and Peridan, his face also pale and drawn, murmured that he could not have agreed more.

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**A.N.:** Goodness, for a while there I thought this chapter would never get written! I've had the chapter that follows this one done for ages now, but this, for some reason, just would not come, and of course my Honours thesis and my "actual" work kept getting in the way as well, but today I just couldn't bear it anymore and sat down to basically force it. If it seems a little stilted that's why, but I do hope my finishing this means everything will come slightly easier than it has been lately! And of course what with the next part is already done it won't be much more than a week before I put that up, and hopefully by then I'll have the next one well underway too. See my goals? So big and shiny!

I wanted to take a moment to explain my use of the name Drinian, which most devotees of Lewis's work will know did not appear in HHB, but rather some centuries afterward, during Caspian's time. My reasoning (well, excuse, really) for using it here is that Drinian is most likely the family name, rather than a given name, and so it is entirely possible that an early Drinian travelled with the court from Cair Paravel while his descendant journeyed with Caspian on the _Dawn Treader_. An alternative explanation is of course that this Drinian became something of a legend for the later ages, and his given name was also given to the son of some (much later) loyal Narnian. Both options are something of a stretch, possibly, but I do like to stick to canon as much as I possibly can!

I'd also like to take the time to offer a most heartfelt thank you to everyone who has taken time to encourage, poke and berate me about just getting on with this. Your work has not been in vain; the fruits of it have just been a trifle slow in manifesting!

Up next: From King to Queen, in which a King is drenched, a Prince is only a little helpful, and the Highest King appears to his appointed Queen.


	13. From King to Queen

From King to Queen

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King Edmund was not told of what occurred on the riding-out. Peridan and Drinian would not have spoken of it without the queen's express instructions, and Susan would not have spoken of it for the world, partly because she was unsure of what she ought to make of the deed itself, but largely because she was all too certain of what Edmund would make of it.

Corin, of course, would have spoken of it gladly and at great length, but Susan, who knew Corin well, expressly forbade him to make mention of it.

"But he _killed_ him." Corin, though he did not cry, had been very white and his lips scrunched up in what anyone would have seen was a very desperate attempt to keep from breaking down. "That horse that _he_ brought for me to ride in the first place, he just . . . he had him _killed_."

And Susan had asked, very gently, if she might hug him, and Corin hadn't even dared to speak as he nodded fiercely and flew into her arms, where he imagined would be the safest place to cry if he weren't too grown-up and manly to consider such a thing.

So they had kept quiet on that point, and on all others that followed; from Peridan's gentle explanation of the mute slaves, to all the myriad things the prince himself did that cause Susan's blood to run icy in her veins. Those, at least, were easier to conceal than the incident with the horse, since the other things were not usually as worthy of note. In fact, they were so often such trifles that Susan sometimes wondered if she might not be fancying things; if the cruelty she imagined she saw in him was only her own horror reflected from the death of a horse who had been in no way at fault.

Then she would see something in the prince's face; a hard, glittering satisfaction whenever he shouted at a slave, sneered at the peasantry or kicked some offensive thing out of his way that chilled the very heart of Susan of Narnia, and made her long, above all else, to return home.

This went on for a full two weeks following their arrival, and through the queen's careful artistry King Edmund was kept from knowing the full extent of it, though he could hardly miss the strain that began to tell on his sister. As they rested in their quarters at the end of an especially wearying day, Susan found it impossible to relax even long enough to take a seat, so weary had she grown of the Empire and its tyrannical prince. Edmund, however, seemed well of a mind to settle back and make conversation.

"Well, I'll give them this," he observed, "they certainly don't make too poor a showing of a welcome."

The Narnian king, reclining easily on a low couch with a goblet of something wonderfully iced and refreshing, earned a sharp scowl from his sister for his generous remark.

"Edmund!"

Truly bewildered, Susan's brother looked over.

"What? I offered a compliment. Your intended, or your intended-to-be-your-intended, certainly knows how to put out the best of everything for his guests. Look at this room, Susan; have you ever seen anything finer?"

"Of course not," Susan seemed to almost hate that she had to agree with him at all. "But I don't care for your tone, Brother; it rings of flippancy."

"What now, Mistress Contrary; are we never satisfied?" Edmund set his goblet aside and sat up, exasperated. "We have been fêted from the moment we set foot in Calormen, all the way to our door. Your prince has been shockingly gracious this fortnight past, and given we are surrounded by men who reek of fruits, spices and any number of flowery perfumes, I barely notice his stench above the rest. I have almost begun to enjoy myself, and now that I venture an agreeable remark, you scorn me for a two-faced schoolboy. Truly, sister, you are more mareish now we are here where you longed to be than ever you were when we were in Narnia, when you professed to desire nothing above Calormen."

"Liken me to livestock again, Brother, and we will exchange more than words," Susan flared, and Edmund's sigh bordered on a snarl.

"Susan, I fail to understand you!" He got up from his couch, hands raised in frustration. "What, do you wish my departure? You seek to drive me away? We are not yet fifteen days in the city and already you want me gone, is this what drives you to temper?"

"Edmund!" There was something in Susan's cry that stayed the king's bewilderment; instead, he lowered his hands and studied her more carefully.

"Sister," he lowered his voice and spoke more steadily, "what is it that ails you? 'Tis Corin, is that it? His behaviour, I will grant you, has not been entirely princely, perhaps, but he has so far refrained from actual bloodshed, and I doubt not that some week or two more in this city will soon tire him of making those faces at Rabadash behind his back. Ideally, of course, before the prince catches sight of them for himself."

"Oh, 'tis not Corin; he has been the very model of a little gentleman. Or at least, as much of one as I might wish . . . Corin is not the problem."

"Then what is, sister? Your chamber is not large enough? One of your gowns spoilt in the crossing?" Edmund sat back down on the couch and reached for his goblet. "Whatever it is, I am sure it can be mended soon enough. Simply tell your prince what troubles you, he will make a lovely little gesture and the solution will appear as if by magic. A handy country, this; he does seem to fix all with a wave of his finger."

At those words, poor Susan could think of nothing but the gesture Rabadash had made to the outrider, the eyes of the dying horse, and the way his lovely coat had been so cruelly spattered by the stain of his own life's blood. Infuriated, heartsick and not knowing how else to handle it, Susan crossed and slapped the goblet from her brother's hand, setting it back on the table. Edmund, surprised, sat back and stared up at her.

"You are truly vexed." He was astonished, and Susan shook her head, infuriated.

"I am not vexed! Do not call me vexed! I am only . . . perplexed."

"Vexed and perplexed. What shall she be next?" Edmund looked entirely too amused by his own wit and poetry for Susan's liking. With a little scream of anger she caught up his goblet and dashed its frigid contents all across his shirt. Edmund, finally completely robbed of speech, gaped at her. Susan in turn stared at the mess she had made of her brother's doublet, then promptly burst into tears and fled from the room.

"Peter," Edmund growled, grabbing up a linen cloth and swiping furiously at his ruined garment, "you owe me for this."

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"You threw it at him?" Corin stared at Susan with something bordering on hero-worship. Susan, sobbing bitterly, could only nod.

"I did. Indeed, to my shame . . . what has come over me? I am not myself. I am short-tempered, I am bitter . . . I am being so . . ."

"Mareish?" Corin offered helpfully, and earned a black glare for his troubles. He subsided quickly, and studied the smooth marble floor beneath his feet.

At seeing Corin's contrition, Susan's expression softened. Instead of feeling angry she felt guilty, and bit fiercely at her bottom lip, fighting back a fresh flood of tears as she shook her head.

"Your pardon, princeling," she murmured, laying her head down on her folded arms, "I am truly not myself . . . I ask your leave to spend some little time by myself in reflection. This voyage has . . . not proved all that I had hoped, and indeed is proving something far worse."

Corin was quick to offer his services in any capacity that Susan might choose, and Susan suggested he might best serve her by going off to enjoy himself; perhaps exploring the area around the house in the time that remained to him before bed.

"But stray not too far," she entreated him, "and as you love me take with you a guard of some sort; 'twould not do to have our dear friend King Lune's son spirited away by Calormene bandits."

So Corin promised to take her instruction under advisement, then scampered from the chamber, leaving Susan to find a handkerchief and struggle to put herself to rights. The efforts, however, were soon daunted by a fresh spring of grief, and in the end she fled her chamber for the seclusion of the garden, where the waters were rushing down from the palace, glowing golden beneath the setting sun.

"I curse me for a fool," she wept to the heedless river, "I curse me for a most prideful, stupid woman."

And under the weight of her breaking heart she fell on her knees by the bank, so she did not see the Lion when he appeared; nobody did. Only the towering cypress trees and the graceful young cedars on the banks of the river witnessed his arrival, the High King above all High Kings rising up from the river itself. His body lifted high above the molten gold of the water, and the great Cat shook his heavy mane to scatter fractured sunlight all around the queen where she knelt.

Susan, her head bent, still berating herself, saw none of this. It was only at the sound of his deepest, richest purr that she stilled; at the sound of his voice, and the words that he spoke, that she raised her head.

"Susan of Narnia, why do you weep?"

Her eyes red, her cheeks pale, Susan looked up into Aslan's face and felt what everyone who does this must feel; that she was so very small, and he so very big, and great, and simply good. She felt her heart wrench anew.

"I have been such a fool," she whispered, and the steady, golden eyes did not change.

"An error that, when confessed and repented of, is no crime. Have not many been fools before you, O Queen?"

"Many women, I daresay," Susan said bitterly, "have been fools in exactly this way before me. But Aslan," and her heart hitched as she spoke, "I have been a fool with a kingdom behind me."

At this, the Lion's face seemed to soften. He grew perhaps a little smaller than he had been a moment before, and he inclined his huge, shaggy head just the very smallest bit.

"And you understand, better than any woman who has ever been, the consequences this might have had. Dear daughter," a new warmth lit that unforgettable face, "I do not see why for this, you choose to kneel by these waters to scorn me."

"Scorn- Aslan, how can you say such a thing? I have never done such a thing. I would never . . . I could never . . ."

"And yet," the Lion observed, "did I not hear you saying how you loathe yourself? How you curse your head, so easily turned, and the feet that bore you here? Your curses are eloquent indeed, but they are not the words of a woman who loves me. They are the words of the most backward and lost of creatures, and of these, you are neither."

"But I _am_," she whimpered. "I am the stupidest of women to have been so easily deceived. I curse with my last breath the eyes that were taken in by his finery, and I curse the heart he led astray."

At these words, something stern and terrible crossed Aslan's face.

"Daughter," he growled, "my own daughter, if you would show your love for me, take back what you have just said."

"Oh-" she gasped, clutching her hands to her chest, "no, you . . . you cannot ask me . . . I _do_. I _curse_ myself. I-"

"It is not something that is within your power to do." Although the Lion again spoke mildly, there was new steel beneath his words. "Now, as you love me; as you hold the throne I gave you; I charge you to look on me and understand that there is nothing within you that has the power or the authority to save or condemn. That privilege and that burden are mine alone."

And Susan looked, and in his face she saw it, and she felt a thousand times farther away from him than she had just a moment before. But then his face was next to hers, and suddenly she found she could move; could put her arms around that great head, and sob, and apologise and take back what she had said, and feel the gentle absolution in the way he let her hold him.

It was much later that she sat back, snuffling rather like a little girl, and tried to clean herself up with her hanky once more. It wasn't going well, so she tried it out with water from the river, but it was hot and scented and it made her feel a hundred times worse. At the sight of her frustration, Aslan stepped aside, leaving behind one great, broad paw print in the bank of the river. As Susan watched, water rushed in; clear, cold water, unpolluted by the nation around it, that looked good enough to drink. Aslan lowered his head, his nose directed at the water that had sprung up from the Earth, and urged her,

"Here, daughter."

So she wet the handkerchief in it, and the water was the nicest, coldest and cleanest that she had felt in such a long time. It made her face feel fresh, and her heart grew lighter even as she sat there.

"I have been such a fool," she said again, and this time Aslan simply watched, and let her speak.

"I have been weak, and prideful . . . but more than that I have been ungrateful. I wanted something more than what you had given me . . . what you'd given all of us. But there's nothing more, is there? Nothing better, certainly, and . . . I was so blind and stupid I didn't care to see it until I had no other choice."

She twisted her handkerchief, and bit her bottom lip in self-reproach.

"The others saw it almost instantly. I could have, too, if only I had been clever enough to look."

She lifted her face to look at the Lion once more.

"I _am_ sorry, Aslan," she said, and it was not the apology of an adult; certainly not the diplomatic admission of a queen. Rather, it was the simple, ingenuous, heartfelt apology of a little girl who's been caught up and has decided to make a clean breast of things. At the sound of it, Aslan's eyes shone.

"This I know," he seemed to smile at her, and for that one glorious moment even the setting sun and the gilded, rushing waters bowed way before the beauty of him. Susan, her heart suddenly singing, smiled back.

"I have caused my family so much worry," she reflected ruefully, scrunching her hanky up in her fist then smoothing it flat over the lap of her dress, "and they have been so patient with me . . . dear Edmund, especially. I threw my ice at him tonight," she added matter-of-factly, and a very small chuckle may have ruffled Aslan's whiskers.

"You did," he agreed. "But ice melts, doublets are soon washed, and apologies are easy enough to extend, once a foolish queen has grown wise again. I do not think," he concluded, "that you will find your brother slow to forgive you. Nor even, perhaps, to extend an apology of his own."

"Surely I owe him one, at least," Susan smiled, and the look in Aslan's face said that perhaps she was right.

"But come," he told her, "and walk with me a while. I did not come here to set you straight; your own heart saw its error before I appeared. I am here only to heal, and to prepare you for what is to come."

"Why?" Susan scrambled to her feet, and in her urgency she slipped a little and her hair came free of a pin or two, and suddenly she looked far more like herself than she had in nearly two weeks. "Aslan, is there something- is it Peter? Is he not . . . are the Giants . . ."

"Peace," Aslan said again, but this time there was laughter in the order, and Susan blushed as she fell silent, and fell into step beside him as he led her along the river bank.

"I do not come," Aslan told her, "with news of your brother, though this will have no small effect on him as well. I come instead to you concerning Calormen. For many years there has been no small unrest in this land; unrest, and wounds much in need of healing. The time is approaching that I have appointed to settle all."

"Settle with Calormen?" Susan wanted to know, and she felt, rather than heard, the Lion's assertion that this was so.

"But no salvation," he went on, "can come without sacrifice, and you are to understand that everything that is to pass within these next few days shall be as it has been set down, long before you ever were."

Susan didn't like the sound of those words, and she looked at him in some alarm. On the Lion's face, though, was only perfect tranquility; the calm of the author of all. It calmed something in her as nothing else could, and she felt herself nodding as fiercely as if he'd explained every detail of his plan.

"If you've set it, Aslan," she decided, "then it must be right. But- won't you please at least tell me if- if . . ." she hesitated, worrying at the skirt of her gown. "You said there will be sacrifice?"

"None that have not been made in the past, and no more than need be made now," was the only reply he gave. "In fact, daughter, I come to you now only because I know your nature too well. I know that what will come will give rise to fresh doubts, and I am here to tell you, before you give way to further self-reproach, that the events that will come to pass are all of my doing, and none of yours. That is all you need to know."

And there was such promise in the way that he said this, that Susan knew it must be so.

"Thank you," she whispered, impulsively flinging her arms about the great neck and hugging him ever so fiercely, "thank you so much; dear, dear Aslan, I cannot think what I should do without you."

"That," the Lion promised, "is something you need never fear. Now," and he stood back from her, his back to the glowing sun so that all about him the air seemed to shine with simple brilliance, "I will ask you this, my daughter- do you know who you are?"

It would have seemed a strange question, had it not been the very thing that had come into Susan's head just as he said it. Something Corin had said as she was borne through Tashbaan had apparently been circling in her mind, just under the surface, for it was the truth that sprang to her lips in answer to the question the Lion had asked.

"I am Susan, Queen of Narnia," she said firmly, with neither pride nor shame. "I am sister of Edmund and Lucy, and second only to my brother, Peter, who is High King over Narnia and second only to you, who are son of the Emperor-over-seas, who is second to none. And," again she spoke with an impulsive candour that made her seem better suited to gymslips and pigtails than girdles and coronets, "I_ do_ love you so."

And at these words the Lion shone; seemed to grow brighter, and fiercer, and all at once gentler. Susan found she had to shield her eyes as a wash of sunlight broke across them both, and when next she looked up she was alone on the banks of the river, the sun dancing on waters that no longer enchanted her senses as they once had, now that she had been bathed in the living gold of the Lion. As she lifted her face to greet a welcome breeze, the trees around her danced and bowed and birdsong rose up, high and sweet, into the open beauty of the clear blue sky.

And Susan, as she had not been for longer than she cared to remember, felt at peace.

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**A.N.:** This chapter's been written for months now, and I'm so pleased to have the chance to finally post it! For some reason this came so much faster than the previous one; can't be sure why, but there it is! Something about Susan's indecision and her confusion, I think, made her far easier to write in this state than she was when she was still all set to be Queen of Calormen. The next bit is fairly well planned-out but not fully written . . . all depends on how much school work I put aside in the next few days how much of this will get done. Fortunately I've my reading week coming up so I should get several chunks written then, when I'm not working on my thesis!

Thanks are in order for everybody who has taken the time to review; I reply to all signed reviews individually, of course, but to all you non-signers you may consider this a blanket thank you! I do appreciate the feedback very much, and I hope that everyone who's not had time to leave it can at least find time to read this chapter and hopefully enjoy it!

Up next: Nowhere So Perfect, in which we leave Calormen for a short time, that Lucy might share her thoughts as well.


	14. Nowhere So Perfect

Nowhere So Perfect

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Lucy hated waking up alone. She was accustomed to having her room to herself, certainly, but she was also used to knowing that Susan was in the room on the other side of their shared sitting room, and she was equally familiar with knowing that Peter and Edmund were in residence in their own rooms, just two halls over. For her to wake up in her room and know that nobody else was where they were supposed to be gave her a sort of sick feeling in her stomach, and she didn't care for it at all.

In an effort to shake this feeling in the days that followed her siblings' departure, Lucy had gone so far as to try sleeping in a different room, in the hopes that she might not have the same expectations as she did in her usual one. Unfortunately that hadn't answered well at all; she had gotten a stiff neck from the strange bed and the window in her new room had overlooked the kitchen gardens, meaning she was jolted awake at the first glint of dawn by Cair Paravel's particularly dedicated resident rooster. So Lucy had returned to her own room, and simply tried to bide her time and not think about how horrid it would be if she had to wake up every day for the rest of her life without Susan just two rooms over.

To keep from thinking about this more than was probably strictly healthy for her, Lucy had thrown herself into every aspect of running the castle that she could imagine. She divided her mornings between the archery fields and the stables, grooming each horse to a satin sheen (the grooms had drawn the line at allowing her to actually muck out the stalls). She had once or twice ventured into the armoury and ruined three breastplates before the dwarfsmiths had rushed in and shown her the proper way to mount a piece of armour before cleaning and polishing it. She found herself in the kitchen on occasion, and with some help had made a not-too-passable cake; she also tried to help clean up afterward, but dishes were never meant to be wiped with such enthusiasm, and after she had dropped her second mixing bowl, the cooks nervously edged her out of the kitchen to finish the job themselves.

Of course there was also the usual business of running the kingdom, what with reviewing certain papers, hearing complaints and the like, and Lucy saw to what parts of that she had to with the help of four anxious, clucking Ministers who tended to hinder more than they helped; they certainly had no shortage of suggestions or criticisms, and Lucy found they made her head hurt if she spent too much time in their presence. She found, too, that in spite of the fussing Ministers and for all the complications they were facing in the border areas, the kingdom itself was in little need of special attention, and a few hours in the council chambers each day were all she found necessary to set things to order. In short, Lucy was at a loss as to what to do with herself, and that was why she started to write.

It began as a simple enough letter to Peter that related (in perhaps more rambling and complex detail than was Lucy's usual style) all that had taken place in his absence, and concluded with a plea for him to write back as soon as he was able. By the time she was done Lucy half-feared Peter would think she was going mad, left at Cair Paravel as she was, but it wasn't enough to persuade her to keep the letter back. Instead she folded it, sealed it (using far too much wax, as usual, and gumming up her seal terribly) and kissed it well over for good measure. Then she turned it over to the Raven who acted as messenger in such situations, and retreated to the castle to pick bits of wax from her much-abused seal.

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"Majesty!" the call of the sentry pulled Peter from the grim task of inspecting the roster of the day's wounded. "Majesty, a Raven!"

"Ours?" Peter called back, and the sentry made such noises as to indicate that while he was loathe to commit himself absolutely, he was fairly certain that yes, the approaching creature could be counted as Narnian, and therefore friendly. Peter nodded, passed a hardened, grimy palm across his brow, and turned the roster over to the grim-looking Marshal at his left.

"The Brown Dwarf Caledon and Torrbit of Blackmarsh are out of it," he concluded. "The rest we may still make some use of, granted a day or two's healing time."

"Majesty," the Marshal nodded in acknowledgment, accepting the roster and then stepping back neatly on all four gleaming hooves to clear the way for Peter to start for the sentry tower, where the Raven was bound to first alight if he planned to alight at all.

" . . . and then, would you credit it but she actually tried to _bake_ a-" the Raven broke off mid-squawk at the appearance of its King, and swept what you would surely have thought a very comical bow indeed, were you not used to seeing Ravens bow, as Peter was.

"Majesty," the Raven croaked, and Peter, who hadn't felt too majestic for quite some time now, bit back a weary sigh and nodded.

"Well-met, friend," he decided. "What news have you?"

"A letter, King Peter," the sentry volunteered, passing it over. "From the Queen Lucy."

But Peter had already turned the small paper over and recognised the much-muddled seal, and started to smile in spite of himself.

"Well-met indeed," he decided, and shared the smile with the Raven, who felt suddenly as if the extra effort he had put into getting it there in two days' flight time had been more than worth it. He bowed again.

"And how fares the queen?" Peter wondered, so the Raven replied with some caution that he felt Her Majesty echoed the heart of all Narnians in her evident anxiousness for the wellbeing of her siblings. Peter's smile broadened.

"That bad, is it? Ah, well. Lucy has never been one to keep out of things gracefully." He tapped his palm with the side of the letter, and felt as if the past weeks might be worth it, after all, if he could just hear the echo of his little sister's heart in whatever words she had written. "You are welcome indeed, Raven, and I urge you to make yourself at your ease. What we can offer you in way of refreshment is at your disposal; you have earned your rest, as well as our thanks."

Then he excused himself and returned to his own tent, discarding the light breastplate he wore and settling onto the low couch that also served as his bed. Breaking the seal, he opened the folded bundle of what proved to be three sheets of parchment well-covered in Lucy's pretty, free-flowing script, and took just a moment to ache for the chance to be home again. Then he bent to the task of reading what his sister had written.

_Dear Peter_, Lucy had begun, _I hope you are having very nice peace talks. If not, and if the Giants are being difficult, I can only imagine the head-aches that must be causing you. Have you begun to fight? I hope you are not fighting, but if you are, I hope you are fighting very well. It won't do any of us much good if you fight badly, except perhaps the Giants, but they have none of them done anybody much good, so they don't deserve the favour_.

By the end of the first paragraph, Peter found he was laughing outright, his headache forgotten. The tone was unmistakably that of his sister at her most exasperated, and yet also Lucy at her most concerned. He knew his sister too well to believe that the letter was half as artless as it appeared; interwoven with easy prattle, numerous admonitions and a healthy dose of idle palace gossip were carefully-worded phrases that gave him a full picture of the state of the kingdom he was even now struggling to defend. Buried in a comical story about two quarrelling water nymphs was a detailed examination of the revised taxation scheme; concealed behind Lucy's exasperation at her cake's failure to rise was an exhaustive report of two delicate international matters that that finally come to a peaceful resolution shortly following Peter's departure.

His youngest sister's greatest skill, Peter knew, lay not in guile, so to find she had made such a masterful attempt at hiding particularly sensitive matters in a letter that might conceivably have fallen in to hands far less friendly than his own was a special thrill to him. And, as he began to read the final page, which was at last purely Lucy warning him to take care, not anger the Giants unduly and practice with his throwing knife at every chance he got, Peter found himself aching for home.

On finishing the letter once, he read it over again twice before taking up ink and parchment of his own, and penning his own reply. There was less to conceal, so he felt he had rather an unfair advantage over Lucy; he was able to address her more directly, tell her what he was able and reassure her on as many points as he could.

The Giants, unfortunately, had not been receptive to the idea of peace talks. They had in fact attempted to flatten a small scribe just moments before it became clear that peace talks were not the route to take, and the Narnians had been forced to cover their own retreat with a lot of shouting and raising of shields and brandishing of the very few weapons they had brought with them. They had been fighting back the Giants ever since.

_But please_, Peter was quick to add at the end of this description, _don't see your way clear to worrying just yet. They are not a skilled breed of fighters, and what damage they do cause seems largely incidental. We have sustained only minor casualties, and I am told we have every hope of coming out well on top before too much time has passed. _

The information Lucy had provided on the running of the kingdom was gratefully received, and he told her so directly. He urged her to patience when dealing with the Ministers.

_Well I know_, he wrote frankly, _they can try a fellow's patience to its breaking point, but their rules do serve a purpose, even if that purpose is too often obscured. I only ask, little Lioness, that you hear them out before you try to shout them down! _

His knife, he assured her, was possibly the most brilliant piece of weaponry he had yet to lay hands on, and each day that passed saw him increasingly grateful to call it his own.

_You would not credit the speed of the thing, nor indeed the accuracy of it. It was a trick to learn the throwing of it, but it has proved a skill worth knowing. I am determined that our own dwarfsmiths should learn the craft of forging the weapon; I am told that there may be some difficulty in matching the balance, but I trust it will not defeat them. I know that a throwing knife is not the weapon of a knight or gentleman, but in such times as these, I think it prudent to examine every honourable means at our disposal._

He then went on to include a concise list of the wounded, and urged her to use her discretion as to the wisdom of informing family members.

_You will know better than I the heart and mindset of those around you, and will be best placed to judge what sorrows they are prepared to handle. I only wish,_ and here his hand stilled a moment as he carefully chose the words he wrote next, _that I could be in a position to fully know the turmoil of your own heart, and to calm it. I know your fears for Susan, and I know that even sending her with such a capable guard as our Edmund will not assuage them entirely. But trust me when I say that our sister will make no rash commitments; it is not within her to do so. _

He looked at the last few lines a moment longer, debating the wisdom of leaving them in. It seemed in one sense too unguarded of him, and in that respect, ill-advised. But then he looked back to the pages of Lucy's own letter, and saw in it a desperate attempt to do anything but face what it was that frightened her so, and he knew he wanted her to read what he had written. With bold, sure strokes, he wrote his parting salutation, and signed his name.

_Your loving brother, Peter. High King of Narnia. _

Then he folded the sheets onto themselves, burned a sufficient amount of wax to show off the rampant lion of his own seal when pressed to the edge of the paper, and left the privacy of his tent in search of a Raven rested enough to bear his message back home to Cair Paravel and the sister who waited there.

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When the letter from Peter arrived, Lucy spared time for only a fleeting burst of gratitude directed at the wearied Raven before, clutching it to her chest, she fled down the hall to the secluded little courtyard that she and Susan made use of whenever they most wanted some time alone. Grass grew thick and green in the centre, and a few graceful little trees shaded a low stone bench from the sunlight that filtered down past the high walls. Stone paths bordered the grass, but Lucy scorned those in favour of the bench, curling up happily on one end of it, secure enough in the privacy that the little space offered to spread the precious sheets of parchment out without fear of being overlooked.

On laying out the letter before her, Lucy noted, for far from the first time, that Peter's script was as sure as her own. Though somewhat neater than her own writing, it was nowhere near as precise as Susan's, nor as economic as Edmund's, and in every flourish, arch and drop of ink Lucy could see her brother shining through. The words, too, were Peter to the bone; strong, bolstering and confident, they read as Peter looked when he really was at his most magnificent. Every word was designed to calm her, but it was not only the words that Lucy saw. In the words she saw her brother's character, but between the lines she saw the truth; she read of his fatigue, his concern for the family he could not be with, and his anxiety over the mounting list of wounded (the list itself she set aside with care to make use of shortly), though, as he was quick to observe, by grace alone they had yet been spared true casualties.

Lucy was not one to underestimate grace, but nor was she one to underestimate the Northern Giants. Although parts of Peter's missive did have the desired effect of bringing laughter to her lips and merriment back to her face, these were fleeting, and were too soon replaced with an even deeper concern. She alone of the four sovereigns was reigning from Cair Paravel; she alone was acting as queen, and it was this that most disturbed her.

Lucy, for all that she was a much-loved queen, had little heart for government. People, yes, she loved; it was the people of Narnia who delighted her, drew her in and made her adore all that had become her own. But when it came to politics, diplomacy and affairs of state and economics, she had tolerance at best. Yes, she knew as well as any good ruler does that a kingdom cannot be borne up simply by the love of its people, but Lucy had brothers and a sister to look to the parts of the thing that she had no taste for. It left her free to know the people they ruled, and it left her free to love them. How on Earth, she wondered, did Peter expect her to love the people she knew so well when she was sitting in a council chamber trying not to scream at a lot of poky old Ministers? It simply defied all logic.

The thought of logic, of course, made her think of her sister, and forced her to conclude that she also didn't much care for Peter's take on the delicate problem of how they were to kidnap Susan if she proved troublesome about this Rabadash business (and kidnap her Lucy most certainly would; there were some tricky points of logic to be worked out just yet, of course, but once she had figured out how she was to get enough people down there to do it, Lucy would be all set to steal her sister back, whether Susan wanted to be stolen or not). Not, of course, that she had told Peter that she was planning as much, but he was supposed to be the tactical one, wasn't he? Surely he must have figured out that Lucy was trying to organise such a thing, and here he was advising prudence and caution and a lot of other noble, silly things that made Lucy want to scream even more than the Ministers did.

"The problem is," she told the papers that both warmed her heart and infuriated her all at once, "that he's just so terribly the High King about it all, isn't he? He's tired and he's sore and he's oh so far away, and I know he must hate that as much as I do, but still he takes the high road, and . . . oh, I ought to too, I know it, but I don't _want_ to!"

And here I am afraid she dashed a furious hand at the letter and sent it fluttering off the bench to land on the grass, where it awaited the queen's sheepish pleasure at reclaiming the pages once more.

"And there," she fussed to herself, smoothing her palm over the creases she had made in her exasperation, "there, that was a terrible bit of unqueenly temper, too, wasn't it?"

If the letter was judging her, it hid it well. Lucy sighed.

"I won't be childish about this," she told herself, though her voice was very small as she said it, "I won't. It wouldn't do . . . I'm all of us that's left at present, and if I start behaving like some silly girl just out of the schoolroom, what will the Ministers think? Not," quickly, "that I much care what a lot of poky old Ministers think, but I have to inspire confidence, don't I? I'm a what-d'you-call-it . . . unelected official."

And though she couldn't remember where she'd heard the phrase, she felt it suited her position perfectly; certainly it seemed to have a pleasing effect. She even straightened up a bit where she sat, and settled the letter more decidedly on the bench beside her. Then she set a stone atop the pages and left them in the courtyard as she walked through the palace, carefully eluding Ministers and pondering the task of writing back to Peter, who had unintentionally irked her by his very nobility.

"I don't want to be angry with him; he's done nothing for me to be angry at, really. He's away and fighting and I ought to be very supportive of that and possibly send some sort of cheering message from everybody about his valour and . . . oh, something chivalrous. I'll do that, I think, and he'll think it's all hogwash and he'll be right but at least I'll have done my part in supporting him."

She tweaked her skirt mournfully, then dodged through an open doorway just as a harried Minister named Tupprong (who was in fact a Talking Goat) came trotting around a corner farther down the corridor and bleated a querulous summons. When no reply was forthcoming he trotted off, and Lucy retreated farther beyond the doorway, fleeing up a narrow, spiral staircase and finding herself in a tower room that looked out over everything and was pleasantly devoid of Ministers.

"I'll feel guilty about this, presently," she thought dolefully, and very soon found she was right. "Bother," said the queen of Narnia, and stalked over to one window to stare out over the late afternoon water of the Eastern Sea. Her face softened as she looked at it.

"Oh . . ." she sighed. "Oh, really, I won't be mad at any of them. I'll be good about it, I will . . . I'll even go to the councils and I'll listen to the silly Ministers and I won't even fuss if Tupprong eats my suggestions (though it was very rude of him to baah me so quickly last time. I will be quite firm that he must not baah me anymore . . .) but please, please, let Peter see why I must worry about Susan, and please let Susan see why she simply must not do anything to make me worry . . ."

The Sea did not answer her, and neither did anybody else, but Lucy felt as if just speaking out loud was helping her a bit, so she kept at it, struggling to articulate the sense of desperation that had been building within her.

"I'm not gracious like Susan, or really noble like Peter, and I'm not even half as diplomatic as Edmund, but I do _feel_. I feel so fiercely right now that I think my heart must simply burst for wanting to make them see (the great, silly things) that I _must_ worry, because if I don't, nobody will . . . I'm so scared Susan will forget that this is where we are all meant to be. I'm scared Edmund won't trouble to remind her that this is ours; that it was given to all of us. And I am so, so scared Peter will die for knowing it."

That certainly seemed to be the worst of what she'd wanted to say; at saying it Lucy certainly found her chest was lightened, and felt wonderful for it. But there was still something left . . .

"It's ours," she said fiercely, "Narnia is _ours_; and we belong to everyone else in it. And there's nowhere so perfect for us as this."

And as she said this, the sun settled lower in the sky behind her, and suddenly the room was awash in the gold of it. Lucy's gown blazed in the brilliance and her own golden hair joyously echoed the radiance of the warmth that enveloped her. And Lucy felt as if somebody had said something to her, though truly nobody had, and if you had asked anybody looking on they'd have told you the same thing, that there was nobody in the room but her. And this was an oddity, really, for if you had asked Queen Lucy, she'd have sworn up and down that she heard someone purr.

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**A.N.:** Well, for better or worse, there it is. Honestly, I am even less pleased with this chapter than I am with the latest chapter of my thesis, but I suppose that only makes sense, seeing as they've been competing with each other for the past . . . well, far too long! I half expect to start dreaming that my thesis defence will involve arguing Susan's decision to travel to Calormen in the first place; if Mr. Tumnus suddenly starts to ramble about gender stereotypes and racism in Nancy Drew, then you'll know I've finally lost it (actually, I very nearly did go mad trying to get this uploaded. If not for the help of a sweet, saintly girl who let me in on the trick of exporting an existing chapter and making it over as a new one, I'd probably be punching the upload button still!).

Plotwise, too, I may be going a little mad! I've been debating a bit, and I may end up moving this particular chapter back to sit between what are currently chapters 12 and 13; I think it might fit better there. If I do, though, it won't happen until after everything else is done. The _good_ news is that with each chapter we are getting ever-closer to the parts I actually wrote last summer that lead up to the (as-yet unwritten) ending. Once I hit those, this should fairly fly along. I hope.

Finally, as ever, a huge thanks to every single patient and generous reviewer and reader; life is simply mad right now but it's always nice to have something like this to bury my head in, and it's even nicer to know that other people like it, too!

Up next: Just a Quick Look 'Round, in which Corin decides that palace walls are too restricting for a prince who wants to explore.


	15. Just a Quick Look ‘Round

Just a Quick Look 'Round

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If there is one thing that is bothersome about a new and exciting place, it's that it doesn't take very long before it stops being new. From there it's only a matter of time before it stops being exciting, too, and when that happens, boys of high spirits tend to get restless.

Prince Corin, being a boy of higher spirits than most, got very restless indeed. It was diverting enough in its own way, he thought, to hang about the little palace. For a time he had been content enough to poke around from room to room, and skip stones on that queer, flat fountain in the basin in the courtyard, but that sort of thing palled pretty quickly. He had also grown weary of scaling the garden wall to peer over into the street, since all he saw was a lot of dirty cloth awnings, and that wasn't very exciting at all. Sometimes there'd be a small litter passing by, and he would shout and wave, but hardly anybody ever seemed to hear him, so what was the fun in that?

He had wanted for a time to try his hand at swimming in the river at the foot of the garden, but Queen Susan had said certainly not, there might be crocodiles. Corin, thrilled, had said were there, really? Did she think he might be able to wrestle one? As a result he had been forbidden the garden for three days until he gave his solemn word to Edmund that he would not again alarm the queen in that way.

Most recently, he had tried hiding in a big clay urn that sat by a doorway just off the courtyard. He'd had great fun making noises every time somebody passed, spooking the lot of them badly. This had kept up until the freed Calormene slaves became so convinced the little palace was haunted that they locked themselves in the servants' quarters and refused to emerge. Mr Tumnus had been charged with finding out why, and it hadn't taken him long at all to ferret out Corin, and deliver him to Edmund with a stern report of what his little Highness had been about.

"I see," said Edmund, and had worked very hard to look solemn as he instructed Corin to make a full explanation and apology to the slaves, who had never received an apology in their lives and were even more overcome by that than they had been by the idea of spooks. Corin thought the lot of them very silly indeed.

With all avenues of diversion thus effectively closed to him, the prince might very well have become very sulky, and I daresay had he been like other little boys his age, he might have thought such a reaction would answer very well. But Corin was a prince to his core and had never been one much given to self-indulgence, so sulking had not occurred to him. It was, he thought, time for something to happen, and if things weren't going to happen in the palace, and if he wasn't to be allowed to make them happen, he would just have to take himself to where they were most likely to happen.

Susan's permission for him to entertain himself beyond the palace walls had at first seemed the very thing he was after. With two guards following he had quite happily explored the street outside the door, darting into the odd alley and trying to make conversation with a lot of heavily-veiled women who were just trying to go about their business, and found it awkward trying to manoeuvre around the fair-haired little boy who seemed to determined to follow after them, chattering nineteen to the dozen about this, that and the other.

He had kept up in this vein for four delightful days before it, too, began to lose its novelty, and the afternoon of the fifth day found him perched dejectedly on the low steps that led up to the narrow street door, watching as the same veiled women passed by in stately serenity.

"They might at least _say_ something," he muttered, and the nicer of the two guards overheard, and answered him kindly.

"They cannot speak to a man unknown to them, Highness," he explained, and Corin was shocked by this bit of news.

"What?! Not really? Well, that would be a dull sort of life, just talking to a lot of women, wouldn't it? I like the queens well enough but I like talking to other folk, too . . . I can't imagine not being able to speak to King Edmund or King Peter, or- well, to you, for example. How do their husbands ever get business done, anyway?"

So the guard had to explain that the same rule did not hold true for men, and Corin, now indignant on behalf of the women who passed by in front of him, said well, he liked _that_.

"Hardly seems fair, now, does it?" he scowled, and then lapsed into a moody silence that ended only when Mr Tumnus appeared in the doorway behind him and said it was time for his Highness to come in. Corin offered no objection, since the street was now scarcely more diverting than the inside of the palace, and trudged along after Mr Tumnus. It was not until they had passed through the courtyard with the fountain in it that it occurred to him to ask why it was that he had to come in at all.

"It's nowhere near time, really, is it? They've not closed the city gates yet," he pointed out, naming the curfew that King Edmund had deemed acceptable for the prince's forays beyond the little palace. Mr Tumnus tut-tutted and concurred that this was so.

"But I cannot fetch your Highness later," he explained. "I've been asked to dine by the Grand Vizier, and knowing as we now do the sort of banquets these Calormenes indulge in each night, I think it reasonable to say I will remain abroad for some time past when you must be abed."

"Well that's hardly fair," said Corin feebly, but his heart wasn't really in it, since it wasn't as if he had been having a great deal of fun looking out on the street anyway, and he knew quite well that one sort of boredom is generally as good as another.

Still, Mr Tumnus did seem to think that he owed Corin some sort of cheering-up, for he said he knew it was a bit of a blow, and kindly asked if Corin might care to come stay with him for the Summer Festival. It would be a grand time, he assured him, with no end to the feasting and the dancing, and of course the kings and queens would be well-involved in everything as well. The idea captured Corin's imagination and for just one moment cheered him immensely, but only seconds later his face fell once more.

"If we're back in Narnia in time for it, certainly," he said, and Mr Tumnus clucked, and shook his head, and said well, they would see about that soon enough, but in the meantime, perhaps Corin might care to venture out the next day in company, and see some of the city.

"Shall I go with King Edmund and the council, then?" Corin brightened, and Mr Tumnus said no, this was not possible.

"King Edmund meets tomorrow with the prince. It's my understanding that Her Majesty wishes him to give hints that we are all to return to Narnia as first we came."

"You mean she's not staying? Good," Corin was satisfied. "I knew she wouldn't. She's much too good to stay here with _him._"

Mr Tumnus coughed delicately. "Yes, well, that's as may be, but perhaps best left unsaid until we are well back in Narnia."

"All right, then," Corin nodded agreeably, somewhat cheered now that he had been told something that made him feel a bit more of consequence, "I'll wait." Then he followed Mr Tumnus to his room and Mr Tumnus explained that King Edmund and Queen Susan would send for him in time for supper, and Corin said that was all right, then, and hoped that Mr Tumnus would have a good night. Mr Tumnus thanked him, said he doubted it, and the pair of them shared a very nice smile before Mr Tumnus left for his banquet, and Corin went into his room to think things over.

It is possibly unadvisable to leave a young boy of high spirits alone to think things over for very long; certainly it was unadvisable to do so with Corin, for he had been alone for all of fifteen minutes before he decided that if King Edmund and Queen Susan wanted to fetch him in for supper, they could do so just as well if he was sitting on the stairs leading up onto the street.

Then, once he reached the top of the stairs, he decided that if they could fetch him in from the doorway, they could just as easily fetch him in from the street. The two guards posted at the door were not the two that had been charged to watch the prince, but just ordinary guards who were meant to keep people out, not in. Since they did not challenge him, Corin began to stroll away, down the street, trying to mingle with the few veiled women still about, and doing rather a poor job of it.

Then, once he reached the end of the street, where the narrow little road circled up to join with a much wider, busier street, Corin decided he might very well just walk a little further, since it would only be the work of a moment to walk back again. Then, at the next corner, he thought he might walk a little further, and again at the next a little further, and finally he realised he had walked quite far up into the city and wasn't sure where, exactly, he had ended up, except that he seemed to be standing at the edge of a small marketplace.

It wasn't much in the way of excitement, really, but for a boy who had been kept confined to the gardens and rooms of a small city palace for three weeks, having previously been accustomed to having two kingdoms through which to ride, it seemed something akin to high adventure. Corin was delighted with his find, and made much of the chance to poke around through the market stalls even as the vendors looked ready to gather in their wares for the day.

He had a few coins tucked in a purse at his belt that King Edmund had given him to spend, and used one to buy a particularly juicy orange that had been overlooked in the corner of one vendor's stall. He peeled it with now-grimy fingernails, split the flesh into sections and ate it piece-by-piece with great relish. The juice dribbled down his chin, getting him quite sticky and stinging a bit where it found a small scrape under his lip, but the sweet, sharp tang of flavour seemed perfectly suited to the glow of the sun as it lowered in the evening sky.

It was just as Corin was deciding he had better ask somebody the way back (and just before it would have occurred to him that he didn't, in fact, know where it was that he must ask the way back to) that he heard that sort of rowdy, hard laughter that means people are enjoying themselves at somebody else's expense. Corin looked to his left and saw the laugher was a Calormene boy, probably a year or two older than himself. It's very impolitic, of course, to take an instant dislike to anyone, but Corin really felt that he couldn't help it, and had no choice but to hate the fellow on sight. He was lean and rather bony, with a sort of pinched, cruel look to his mouth and eyes, and he was laughing at something that had been said by a market vendor.

Now, it's not terribly princely to eavesdrop, but the boy was only an arm's length away from Corin, and he wasn't being particularly quiet. So when he ended his laughter by addressing the vendor, Corin could hardly help hearing what he said.

"-and well I know the type. But she doesn't sound any worse than that Narnian queen, does she? Now, _there's_ a piece of goods for you, if you fancy that cold sort . . . still, our Prince had best know what he's got himself into, there."

"Ah, yes," the vendor waggled a finger, "I will wager you he knows exactly what he is getting after _there_, indeed, he does."

The boy nodded, a nasty grin spreading across his face.

"Well, you know what they say about Barbarian women, anyway– the colder the country they come from, the more eager they are to warm a bed."

After that, there seems to be a brief lapse in the story. When you asked him after Corin would say that he wasn't quite sure how it happened; he knew nothing but that one moment he was standing there, hearing that, and the next he was standing over the howling boy, studying his own bloodied knuckles with an air of vexation; if he came home with another boy's blood all over him, Queen Susan would be sure to scold.

At the sight of the single blow that had felled his young companion, the vendor, eyes wide, quickly made himself scarce. This left Corin to watch as the boy picked himself up and went tearing off through a narrow door, evidently fleeing into his own home. Corin decided that this took care of that, and was on the verge of continuing on when the boy, his nose still streaming crimson, came scrambling back out in the wake of a bigger, heavier boy with a stupid, angry look about him.

"That's the one!" the bleeding boy howled, so the big boy went for Corin, who held his ground and politely knocked the big boy down too (this one took two blows, instead of just one). Then he turned a fierce scowl on the skinny boy that drove him back a step.

"If you ever speak of Queen Susan that way again," he vowed, "I'll split more than your lip, d'you hear?"

And, considering Susan's honour properly secured, he then started off to try to find his way home. He was unfortunately going in quite the wrong direction (though of course he couldn't have known that) and rounded three corners onto progressively narrower streets before he realised that the two bruised, bleeding and now very angry boys were still on his heels, and he was about to round on them and send them both off again when three large, rather impressive-looking elderly men with flowing beards and spiked turbans and long spears in hand stepped out from what looked like a little guardhouse of sorts.

The newcomers were hailed by the boys behind him as the Watch, though what exactly they were meant to watch Corin never got to find out, because the two Calormene boys at once started calling him all sorts of foul things and accusing him of innumerable crimes, over half of which Corin hadn't even heard of before (and a portion of which he vowed to remember for later on) but certainly seemed to excite the Watch. Corin's protest that he hadn't done even a fraction of the things they said he had went unheard; the Watch came at him with grim delight and three spear-butts battered the Prince with alarming skill and accuracy as, between the three of them, the Watch made very short work of him. Corin went down five times before it occurred to him that it might be cleverer on the whole to just stay down until they tired of knocking him about, so he did.

Finally, dazed and stunned, missing one of his top teeth and finding it extremely tricky to see out of his left eye, Corin found himself hauled to his feet by the back of a now ripped and dirty tunic and marched down the street, away from the smug Calormene boys. He waited until they had made two turns before he felt confident enough to address the guards who held him, trusting as he did in their inferiority to Narnian guards, whom he was quite certain could not have been bought for anything.

"Thirsty work, this, what?" he said, and though none of them unbent to him, he fancied he saw an exchange of looks between the two who held him, and a slight falter in the pace of the one who led the way. Encouraged, he pressed his advantage.

"What I mean to say is, if you lot have been out and about all day, that's got to be some dirty business, hasn't it? This dust gets in the throat, I find . . . I've only been about a few hours, and I could already go for a bit of wine. Wouldn't you say the same?"

Another glance, this one not merely perceived but quite definite, was traded between the two who held him. The one in front actually looked back, first at the prince, then at his other two captors.

"Well," said the leader.

"Well," said the two who held him.

"Don't mind if we do," said the leader. And the two who held him didn't mind if they did, either, so Corin said that was well enough for him, and the whole lot of them veered off down a side street and found themselves on the stoop of a little wine merchant's shop.

The shop itself was closed, but evidently when the Watch bangs on your door with their spear-butts, you have to open up and let them in to buy what they please. The nervous little wine merchant opened up quite readily, and Corin bought the Watch a great deal of very good wine, depleting the contents of his coin purse to do so. Then he sat back to watch them drink it from the dented silver cups the merchant had provided from his own cupboard.

Corin himself had only a small amount of the wine, found it much stronger than what he was used to, and asked for water instead. The merchant, evidently too scared of the Watch to defy even their prisoner, brought him some tepid water in a cup, and Corin sipped it just once before he decided he was better off not drinking anything until he got back among friends. This left him to watch with great interest as the Watch first grew very happy and talkative, then very sad and mopey, and finally, as is the case when you are drinking almost any sort of wine but particularly the strong, good sort that Corin had paid for, very, very sleepy.

When the last of the Watch had nodded off and all three were snoring gently, Corin thanked the merchant politely and slipped out the door, into the darkened street.

The city gates, he guessed, were closed by now, which meant he had missed his curfew and would have to draw an awful lot of attention to himself to get back in to his bed. That was granted, of course, that he could even find his way back- it was very dark indeed, and even knowing that the whole thing could eventually be sorted out if he just started downhill didn't help that much. Rounding a corner with the intent to ask at the next gate for directions to the palace of the Narnian king, he was surprised and incensed to find the same skinny, mean-faced Calormene boy who had first spoken so derisively of Queen Susan to begin with.

"Oi!" Corin shouted, and though it may have been common of him, it was certainly effective; the boy looked up with a start, and at seeing Corin, tunic ripped, face dirty and eye swelling shut, was clearly torn between fleeing and standing his ground. "Oi," Corin repeated, "you! You, with the big lout of a brother and the foul mouth, I want a word with you!"

When Corin said a word, he really just meant a quick swipe, and that was what he took. This time, on being knocked down, the Calormene boy very sensibly stayed down, and Corin went on his way with considerably greater cheer, the encroaching nightfall not withstanding.

It soon became clear, though, that nightfall was going to make it not only impossible to find his way home without help, but also very difficult to persuade anybody to open their gates to speak with him. When he very nearly went in at a gate that proved to have a large and angry dog kennelled behind it, waiting to spring on any intruders, Corin decided that the conclusion to this unexpected little adventure was best left to daylight hours.

Skirting the next two gates, which also, by the sounds of it, led to homes that kept dogs, Corin finally found what he was after- a lovely, sturdy drain-pipe running down the side of the wall from a sort of gutter dug into the roof. It was the work of a few minutes to scramble up it and reach the sort of nearly flat roof that are common to the poorer houses in the Southern cities. He found the tiles still warm from the evening sun, and the little prince stretched out on them with a happy little sigh. The heat from the clay roof warmed him all through, and even made the dull throb of his eye a little more bearable. He curled up in the corner farthest back from the street, where he judged he would be least likely to be spotted and taken in for a burglar, and nursed his scraped knuckles with care. His stomach growled a bit –it had been quite some time now since he'd eaten that orange– but he was able to push it from his mind with thoughts of tomorrow.

"I'll find my way back when it's light," he decided. "It didn't take me a day to get lost, after all- it surely can't take me more than a day to find my way back. Though goodness," with a curious mix of dismay and pride, "won't they make a fuss about how long I've been gone!"

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**A.N.:** I'm much happier with this chapter than I was with the last, but that's possibly just because I've written my last exam _ever_! I've also finished my thesis; my defence went quite well, and aside from some editing I have to do before convocation, I'm free! Hopefully things will be written much faster now. Thank you all yet again for your patience, encouragement, and your wonderful feedback.

Up next: Panicking and Political Manoeuvres, in which a prince is missing, the Narnian envoy is uneasy, and a prince is not really found.


	16. Panicking and Political Manoeuvres

Panicking and Political Manoeuvres

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It did not actually take very long to discover Corin was gone. Susan and Edmund first tumbled to the fact that something was amiss when two successive strikings of the dinner gong failed to bring the prince running– a phenomenon that had not once occurred in the three weeks they had spent in the city.

"Do you think he has a stomach ache?" Susan wondered, and Edmund, who was feeling a bit unsettled himself after a few foreboding encounters with Tarkaans at the prince's palace, said it was quite possible.

"I've never known him to have such a thing before, of course," Susan went on doubtfully, and Edmund said well, there was always a first time, wasn't there? And he sent one of his sister's new Calormene servants to Corin's room to see if it was indeed a stomach ache that kept Corin from dining.

Things got a bit confusing for all of them when the former slave did not return, and another was sent to fetch him, only to also fail to reappear. Now thoroughly confused, Edmund and Susan decided if the thing was to be done right they would have to do it themselves, so they got to their feet and went to Corin's room, where they found two distraught former slaves huddled in the corner and no prince in sight.

"What's all this?" Edmund demanded, and the tone of his voice made both slaves wail in terror and cover their faces from him, so Susan said well, _that_ clearly wasn't the tack to take, and chased her brother from the room that she might speak to the frightened men herself. Edmund put up a bit of a fuss about leaving her alone, but Susan said she really thought he could trust her honour to a pair of fellows too terrified to even look her in the eye, so at last she succeeded in shutting the door on him and turning to face the slaves.

"Now then," she smiled, and it was undoubtedly the first time that Susan's lovely smile had elicited such quaking terror from anyone, "nobody's going to get angry with you, we just want to know what has happened. Where is Prince Corin?"

It took some coaxing, but at last one of the slaves managed to explain, through moans of terror, that the prince had already been absent on their arrival in the room.

"Really? Goodness," Susan said politely. "I expect he has run out into the street again; we'll fetch him back soon enough. But whyever didn't you come back to tell us?"

So the slaves explained that bad news was always severely punished, and they did not want to be subjected to (and here followed a gruesome description of a form of torture that was apparently quite common in Calormene households, but which made Susan draw back in horror at the thought of such a thing being done to anyone).

"Goodness!" she stammered, ashen. "Goodness, is _that_ what they do to you here?"

The slaves said well, yes, rather.

"Well that," Susan said sternly, "is nothing that is ever done in Narnia to anybody or anything. That is appalling. That is hideous. It is," and here she hit upon the word that would best convey to a Calormene the depth of her horror, "_barbaric_."

Then she fetched Edmund in and explained matters to him, and Edmund, after looking decidedly green at the description Susan had the slaves repeat for his benefit, added his reassurance to hers that such a thing would never be done to Narnian freemen as long as he was king to say so.

"But now," he said, "we had best fetch Corin in, and get back to eating before everything in there goes cold."

So one of the slaves was sent out into the street to call Corin in, and Susan and Edmund returned to the small banquet room they liked to use for private suppers. A few minutes later a very pale and shaking slave inched his way into the room, and stammered that his Highness was not to be found in the street, nor in any other room of the palace. Edmund and Susan exchanged glances.

"Well, surely . . ." Susan said doubtfully, and Edmund, equally uneasy, said yes, surely. And both got up to see for themselves.

Half an hour later, a very frantic Queen Susan cast herself down on a couch in the meeting atrium and wailed that Corin was lost to them and that it was all her fault (the logic by which she had arrived at this conclusion eluded all present, but none dared ask her to elaborate) while Edmund, looking very grave, drew aside Peridan and Drinian and a Dwarf and had a very hasty whispered consult with all three of them.

"Like as not his little Highness is only having some sport with us," he said, "and there is surely little reason yet for us to entertain such fears as seem to have beset our sister."

"Aye, Majesty," the Dwarf nodded gruffly, "he is a high-spirited boy, to be sure, and where, I ask, is the harm in that? Save, of course," and here he grew grim, "when we are hosted with ever-waning courtesy in a foreign city that's hot as hellfire –begging Her Majesty's pardon, I'm sure– and filled with a lot of prissy-footed folk in silk shirts who can't give you a straight answer to save their sorry lives."

"Peace, please," Peridan entreated, and though the Dwarf looked doubtful about his ability to offer it, he did not say so. "I am sure that none in Tashbaan could intend harm to his Highness, if for no other reason than that they could not hope to know who he is. Has he not kept close to the palace these past three weeks, rarely going out at all?"

"And well we know the reason for that," Drinian said grimly, and both men exchanged brief but significant looks; the death of the horse those three weeks before, though it had not traumatised them in quite the same way it had the prince or the queen, had nevertheless made no small impression, and it was the thought of it that held them now.

"This is true," Edmund was saying, "and perhaps therein lies our folly. We–" He stopped, then, and grimaced a bit before shaking himself free of what Lucy always scorned as the "royal collective" with an effort. "I wanted to humour Susan when she asked he be kept close, and in truth I thought it for the best. Corin has such affection for her, and she for him, that I may have hoped he might dissuade . . ." but his hopes never found full voice, because the second Dwarf came puffing in to the room to say that there had been, at least, no signs of struggle in or anywhere near the prince's room, and that yes, the guards had seen Corin leave unaccompanied and no, they had not thought to stop him.

"There, Susan," Edmund said, as his sister forced herself to sit up, clutching what had to be her third handkerchief of the past ten minutes, "you see? He has not been spirited away."

"But he may have met with any number of misfortunes on leaving us," she whispered, and Edmund, who had thought much the same thing but would not for the world have voiced it, set his jaw and crossed to sit beside her, and take her hand in his.

"There, now," he said, and tried to sound bracing but only sounded helpless, "there, we'll fetch him back soon enough, you'll see. I am to meet with Rabadash himself tomorrow, and have no doubt that if I drop a word in his ear of the distress Corin's absence has caused you, he will have the city turned upside down in search of him."

Susan hesitated, then nodded. Whatever her reservations about drawing profit from the Prince's desire to win her over, they were incomparable with the horrific thought that Corin might be, for whatever reason, lost to them for good.

"Very well," she murmured, nodding, "let it be as you have said. Certainly I can think of no better plan." And since this seemed to be all they were able to do that night, she allowed Edmund to help her to her feet and escort her all the way to her sleeping chamber.

"Will you not take something?" he asked, reluctant to part with her when she looked so wan and frightened. "Perhaps some herbs, or even a small draught of wine to help you sleep."

But Susan shook her head fiercely, recoiling at the suggestion.

"Certainly not," she said, and through her tears came the sound of a thin cord of steel; the stuff of which Royal backbones are forged. Edmund took heart at hearing it, and wished her well to bed.

O0O0O0O

The next morning found Susan still weeping intermittently and looking rather a puffy mess about the face, but at least she had slept, which was a privilege Edmund was less able to claim. He had found himself continually awoken by a growing sense of uneasiness, and try though he might to tell himself it stemmed from Corin's absence and Susan's concern at it, he knew it ran deeper than that.

Over the past two weeks, as he had watched Susan shift from gracious and content to skittish and unhappy, he had also watched Rabadash's thinly polished veneer of civility wear thin, and finally crack through. It was this that kept him up and pacing about as the stars faded into the pale, pre-dawn sky, and it was this that had him dressed and moving through the palace shortly after the night fires died out.

Susan was still abed when Edmund sent for the men who would serve as his guard to the Tisroc's palace, and though they clearly would all have much preferred another hour or two of sleep, they were too understanding and indeed too polite to tell him so. They merely blinked a bit and yawned a lot, and shuffled out of the palace with Edmund into the grey Tashbaan dawn.

"Hot out today," one observed sleepily. The man beside him shrugged.

"It was hot out yesterday," he reminded his companion, and the first man nodded as a third joined in dolefully.

"I'll lay you each ten crescents it's hot out tomorrow, too."

"Blast this wretched country," the first grumbled, and a general rumble of agreement went up all around.

"Fierce place, this," decided Mertin, a stoutish, bearded fellow with a look of the Army about him. He took off the helmet he wore, as if in defiance of any country that could be called fierce.

"Dreadful unfriendly, too," agreed the man who had offered to wager twenty crescents. "D'you know I think half these fellows beat their wives?"

"Oh, surely more than half," the man who had been second to speak spoke again. "Surely, more than half . . . and their servants, children, and livestock too, I shouldn't wonder."

"Well," said the man who had first complained of the heat, "I'm sure there's Narnian and Archenland fellows as beat their households too, don't you think?"

"To be sure, to be sure," the betting man agreed, "but you wouldn't catch a _decent_ Narnian or Archenlander letting him get away with it, now, would you? That's what I'm getting at, you see; the sort of things that decent folk don't do, a lot of these folk would."

"Oh, come- that's not to say they're all indecent, now, surely, Jardin," Peridan protested, and several of the men, Jardin included, said no, surely not.

"But it is to say," Mertin decided, "that a country that's ruled by an indecent fellow can see its way clear to committing any number of little indecencies as it pleases, you see? Gives 'em a sort of licence, so to speak, since they know they can get away with it."

And this, it seemed, all the men could agree upon.

Only Drinian and Edmund kept slightly apart from the rest of the group, the older man and his King walking together in silence, listening to their small company confer. They were over halfway to the palace before Drinian spoke.

"In frankness, Sire; think _you_ we should worry?"

Edmund did not speak right away. He considered carefully, and kept his eyes on the main road before them. His caution was doubly necessary now that Tashbaan was beginning to awake, servants emerging from houses to air out rugs and linens and vendors beginning to trundle their carts market-ward. At last he spoke, sounding quiet but grave.

"I think at this point, my friend, it would be a fool who did not."

The walk to the palace was finished in silence.

O0O0O0O

On reaching the palace, the Narnian courtiers were informed that they would have some waiting to do, as Prince Rabadash did not generally rise until the sun had taken a more exalted position in the heavens. Edmund hadn't expected much more than that anyway, and said that was quite all right, but wondered if perhaps a bit of breakfast could be found for his party.

"I am ill-content to lie abed," he explained, "and so my advisors were compelled to humour me in my desire to venture abroad before the sun was yet fully up. As we departed without partaking of any nourishment, I am afraid their stomachs may have suffered for it."

This, at least, was a suffering that the servants of the house were equipped to ease, and it seemed only the work of a moment for them to conjure a lavish offering of fruit and whipped cream, as well as several wide platters of intriguing-looking wafers flavoured lightly with honey. Goblets of fruit juice and small cups of hot, strong coffee were also provided, and it was not long before the courtiers, who had indeed been roused somewhat before their time, had forgotten this inconvenience in the face of the feast spread before them.

When at last a slave did arrive to announce that the prince had awoken and was now prepared to receive Edmund, the company was in such good spirits that Edmund was particularly loathe to leave them in favour of an audience with Rabadash. Naturally, of course, he could not say so, but he thought it very strongly, and the lords around him seemed to think it too, for they pulled a lot of sombre faces and made Edmund feel very wanted and liked, which is of course always nice to feel.

Nevertheless he knew it is impolitic to keep a host waiting, and really quite imprudent to do so when the host has as foul a temper as Rabadash, so Edmund made quick to follow the slave into the sleeping-wing of the palace, toward the airy chamber where Rabadash received most of his visitors. There, Edmund found the Calormene prince in a mood that could best have been described as worry-making. Just as the great doors to the audience-room were pushed wide to admit the Narnian king, the prince had evidently found some fault in the way that one of his slaves was pouring the wine. A heavy hand sent the jug flying, and wine splattered everywhere. The same hand sent the slave flying after it, and a string of hysterical curses followed.

"Son of a dog and a donkey!" he was shouting, eyes wild, "I will teach you to behave as befits your-"

"Highness," Edmund interrupted quickly, striding forward with his hand outstretched, "it is gratifying to find you in such . . . high spirits this morning. I trust my early arrival has not inconvenienced you in any way?"

He knew perfectly well, of course, that it probably had, and was possibly even partly responsible for the barely-restrained temper the Prince was in when he turned reluctantly to bare his teeth at his guest. It took Edmund quite a moment to realise that the grimace was meant to be something in the way of a smile.

"Not at all, King Edmund," Rabadash said at last, and though his tone was somewhat choked, his words, at least, were smooth. "I only grieve that these mongrels who serve me cannot complete a task so simple as that of providing refreshment for my honoured guest." Then, though he clearly longed to continue berating the shaking, wine-damped man in question, he gestured grandly that Edmund might precede him to the low table laid for their enjoyment.

Edmund soon saw that the food on this table was not the light, fresh fare of the breakfast hall that he had so recently quit. It was heavy and rich, consisting mainly of highly-seasoned meats, sticky pastries and assorted sugared nuts. The wine that Rabadash pressed him to take was heavy as well, red and strong and almost cloying to the taste. It might all have looked very well to a hungry man later in the day, but that early in the morning, for a man who had already eaten and who had developed, over time, a personal aversion to rich sweets, it was not nearly as appetising as you might think. Edmund took as little of it all as decency would permit, and picked at it as much as he possibly could.

Fortunately Rabadash seemed not to have much of an appetite for his food either, restricting himself almost exclusively to his cups. He was in the process of draining a third when their discussion shifted from polite exchanges of maxims and observations on the nature of men (and how it galled Edmund to spend a full twenty minutes conversing that way I am sure even you and I cannot possibly hope to understand) to more pertinent topics.

"I trust you left Her Majesty well," Rabadash said, setting his goblet down for replenishment with a hand that was markedly less steady than it had been even ten minutes before. Edmund sipped his own wine, longed for water, and said he had left her sound of body, but uneasy of spirit.

"Indeed?" Rabadash contrived to look alarmed and touchingly concerned by this news, but only managed an expression that spoke vaguely of indigestion. Edmund was on the verge of explaining that Susan's distress was due to Corin's truancy, but before he could, Rabadash pressed for the reason of his own accord.

"Not due, I trust, to any fault that she has found with the hospitality of my father," he said, and Edmund, who certainly could not tell Rabadash that Susan had found in the Tisroc that perplexing combination of a man who is appallingly fat but has an undeniably serpentine personality, said no, naturally not.

"In fact," he said with perfect truthfulness, "only two days past she remarked to me that we have never before enjoyed a brand of hospitality equalled by that we have found in Calormen."

Rabadash, fortunately, took this as the compliment that Edmund had hoped he would.

"Am I then to take it," he wondered, making alarming progress through the contents of the goblet he held, "that I may soon entertain a . . . favourable response to my suit?"

Oh, blast. Edmund held his face very still and solemn, and tried not to let even a fraction of his consternation show. This was not a discussion he wanted to have, and he chose his words with extreme care before speaking.

"Certainly," he observed, "Her Majesty's behaviour toward you has been cordial indeed these past few weeks, though as of late I have marked a new, rather maidenly reserve about her. Doubtless," he encouraged, "you, too, have observed this."

Rabadash, who had indeed noticed this but who had long since ceased to attribute it to Susan's maidenly virtues, glowered more than usual and confirmed his observations in a low and dangerous voice. Edmund shifted just a trifle where he sat.

"Surely," he smiled, contriving to look cavalier (or how he imagined cavalier must look– Edmund hadn't a great deal of experience with cavalier), "His Highness is as aware as any man is of the . . . changing nature of ladies' fancies."

His Highness did seem to at least have heard something of the sort. His expression darkened, and Edmund shifted in his seat.

"But certainly," Rabadash said coolly, "Queen Susan would not be so base as to toy with any man's affections."

"Undoubtedly not," Edmund said, just as coolly, and meant it. But Rabadash did not seem soothed. Even when the subject drifted from Susan the Prince's expression remained dark and his demeanour threatening. When he began relating in gruesome detail the progress of his latest tiger hunt and the manner in which he had slaughtered the animal, Edmund became positively queasy.

"A dangerous sport," he managed to observe, and Rabadash, reclining opposite him, said indeed.

"But then," he said, and his eyes glittered, "little that is not dangerous can be called sport."

Edmund didn't know how to take that, and wasn't entirely sure he wanted to. He made what he hoped was a suitable rejoinder, and restricted himself to rejoinders for the next half hour. When at last he took his leave of the Prince and rejoined his company, he looked as ill as he felt.

"Sire?" said Peridan, but the Calormene crier approached to lead them back to their palace, removing the possibility for any discussion they might have held. Edmund simply shook his head, and they left the palace without further discussion.

O0O0O0O

The mood became slightly less strained as the company drew farther away from the palace. As they descended into the city they fell into conversation, and even Edmund permitted himself to be drawn into a naval discussion with Peridan, whose brother was a merchant sailor, and Drinian, who came from a long line of seafarers.

"But think you," Drinian was saying, "that any man who would set sail with both wind and tide so against him should be permitted to–"

Edmund, however, suddenly stopped listening, and indeed committed an additional, dreadful rudeness into the bargain by interrupting the man outright. His eyes had been roaming absently over the people pushed back from the middle of the street by the cry of the Calormene who led them, since he had been thinking what a hardship it must have been for them, to be so regularly interrupted when they were simply going about their business.

Imagine his surprise to see, of all people, Corin of Archenland front and centre in the ranks of the Calormene peasantry. Imagining that, you may then understand why he found it possible to interrupt Drinian that he might point, and shout,

"There he is! There's our runaway!"

Faster than Edmund himself could have credited it, he was at the side of the road and laying hands on the boy, catching him and pulling him into the road, amongst his own people, who hemmed him in and marvelled at the unexpected recovery of their prince. Edmund was in a state of excitement much unlike him, clutching Corin and giving him a sharp smack in an attempt to communicate even a fraction of the agony the whole household had undergone at finding him absent.

"Shame on you, my lord!" he ranted. "Fie for shame! Queen Susan's eyes are red with weeping because of you. What! Truant for a whole night! Where have you been?"

Unfortunately Corin seemed ill-prepared to answer, and instead simply stared. He may have blinked a bit, too, but Edmund was simply too relieved to have him back again to notice.

"Take one of his little lordship's hands, Peridan, of your courtesy," he invited, and Peridan did, "and I'll take the other. And now, on. Our Royal sister's mind will be greatly eased when she sees our young scapegrace safe in our lodging."

They made a jumbled party as they continued on, the Narnian and Archenland lords, the Narnian king, the Calormene crier and the strangely bedraggled Archenland prince, but Edmund couldn't have cared less. He clung to Corin's spindly wrist –strange, he had never noticed how thin the child really was– and thought of the relief he could bring his sister. He tried very hard not to think of the look on her face when he told her how his audience with Rabadash had gone, and instead imagined what she would look like when he produced Corin. Edmund took more than a little selfish comfort in knowing that, even if he could bring her no other good news, he could at least bring her this.

O0O0O0O

O0O0O0O

**A.N.:** This chapter is posted as a celebration- I am now officially a graduate!

We're now drawing closer to pre-written stuff, so save a few tweaks here and there, I expect things will come quite quickly. The next chapter will be done shortly, but not for any reason I'm proud of. For plotting purposes, it will be the chapter where I borrow most heavily from HHB itself, meaning the majority of the dialogue will be taken from the book. The narrative will be my own, but assuming you have read the book itself, you will have already seen a great deal of the dialogue that is coming up and I just wanted to let you all know beforehand.

Up next: For Now We Must Be Secret, in which there is some concern, and much cause for celebration.


	17. For Now We Must Be Secret

For Now We Must Be Secret

O0O0O0O

Susan rose to find that her brother and almost half the Narnian and Archenland courtiers had taken their leave of the palace some hours before, while she still lay abed. The remaining courtiers were only just stirring themselves, and Susan found she had no desire or reason to converse with any of them. Instead she elected to remain in her quarters and see what cold water could do to reduce the puffiness of her salt-swollen face. Her efforts were hampered not only by her refusal to send for help from the two Narnian ladies brought with her to see to such matters, but also by her tendency to break into small fits of tears when she thought of everything that might befall Corin loose in Tashbaan. Nevertheless, by the time the palace was awake and bustling, the Narnian queen had made a passable job of putting herself to rights.

She breakfasted alone, declining the company of the courtiers in favour of taking the meal in her own chambers. The offering placed before her was a combination of dried and fresh fruits and several pleasant ices, but she ignored them all for the sake of a cool, frothy drink she had become fond of while in the city. It was lighter than wine but thicker than water, at turns sweet and bitter, and although the name given to it by the Calormene cooks translated as something like 'nut milk' it was really not much like milk at all. It was, however, extremely refreshing, and just the sort of thing you'd feel like drinking after a good long cry.

She carried the chilled cup with her out onto the lawn that lay to the rear of her rooms. Already the sun was casting rays over the high garden walls, and Susan knew from three weeks of experience that it would be only a matter of minutes before the whole area was awash with heat. Then the only relief from the sun would be found under the well-regulated trees, or behind the walls of the palace.

"It traps one, this place," she murmured, and shivered. A sip of the smooth drink in her cup calmed her, and she made her way down to the river that encircled the base of the city. There were no lions in it today, though Susan would have welcomed a sturdy neck to hug and weep on had it been offered. Instead there was only a slight breeze, left over from the chill of the night before, that stirred her skirts and lifted her hair as if to promise that colder days were not long in coming. In Narnia, such breezes were taken as an urging to enjoy what short days of summer remained to them, and Susan took heart at feeling it.

"Aslan willing," she breathed, "let it not be long now . . . Narnia, the North, and oh! please . . . home."

She might have said more, but was distracted by a shout from the palace.

"Majesty!" it was Mr Tumnus, capering madly about on a first-floor balcony above the garden, "Your Majesty, the king is returning, and Majesty!" he clutched his horns in a frenzy of jubilation, "the sentries say he is bringing Prince Corin!"

Susan's answering cry was one of fierce joy and overwhelming relief. Forgetting the heat of the city around her, forgetting Rabadash, the river, the breezes and, for just one moment, even home, she dropped her now-empty cup, caught up her skirts and whirled about, sprinting back into the palace to await the arrival of Edmund and their errant Prince.

O0O0O0O

The sentries being the dedicated fellows that they were, the news of Edmund's return preceded him by almost a full three minutes. In those three minutes the Northern envoy had time enough to assemble in the airy, northern-facing room that they used most often for informal council. It was well-suited to its purpose, being on the first floor and well away from any eavesdroppers lurking about on the ground. By the time Susan arrived, all the Narnians and Archenlanders were present, from the tallest man down to the Dwarfs and Sallowpad. All of them rose when Susan entered.

"Mr Tumnus," she ran across to the far side of the room and caught the hands of the faithful little fellow, "oh, dear Mr Tumnus, you are certain it is he?"

And Mr Tumnus said he was, and Susan thought, for just a very short moment, that she must faint, for the room around her seemed to fold on itself, and the floor lurched up beneath the thin soles of her slippers. But Mr Tumnus had hold of her, and he steadied her admirably, and he and her two ladies helped her over to a nearby sofa to settle her.

Once Susan had been seated and recovered herself everyone around her was able to also sit down if he wished, and there was a tense wait of almost a minute more before footsteps were heard on the stairs beyond. The whole room seemed to catch its breath, and only when Edmund appeared, leading a most bedraggled and oddly-clad Corin, did everyone again breathe.

Susan, unable to restrict herself to waiting decorously for Corin to be presented her, leaped from where she sat and again flew across the room to catch the little boy up and kiss him well over, berating him frantically and demanding to know where he had been. Corin, looking utterly lost and very unlike himself, stammered that he didn't know, and Edmund threw up his hands.

"There it is, Susan," he exclaimed, in case Susan had somehow missed it, "I could get no tale out of him, true or false."

It was a strange flaw to be attributed to Corin, and Susan would have looked back to the boy and asked after its cause had Mr Tumnus not first spoken.

"Your Majesties! Queen Susan! King Edmund!" he cried, and both turned instead to look at him, "your Majesties, His little Highness has had a touch of the sun. Look at him! He is dazed. He does not know where he is."

That, certainly, was an explanation that all were willing to accept. Susan, immediately contrite, forbade anyone to question him further and guided the boy over to the very sofa on which she herself had been sitting, entreating him to lie upon it. Her ladies piled cushions beneath his head, and one courtier sent for a cup of lemon sherbet. Corin tucked into the sherbet readily enough, which eased Susan's mind even more than the sight of the prince himself had done. She longed very much to hold his head in her lap and stroke his hair and scold him fiercely, but she thought he might not appreciate the indignity, so she restricted herself to a pat of his hand before allowing Edmund to draw her away to another couch.

"Now, Madam," he sighed, sitting and taking her hand, "what think you? We have been in this city fully three weeks." He struggled to keep all expression from his face as he asked the question whose answer he had dreaded far longer than just three weeks. "Have you yet settled in your mind whether you will marry this dark-faced lover of yours, this Prince Rabadash, or no?"

In spite of the distress she had endured the night before, Susan found she had to fight a smile at the look of stricken terror on Edmund's face. She took her free hand, placed it on his cheek and shook her head.

"No, Brother," she said, and there was a sort of teary laugh in her voice, "not for all the jewels in Tashbaan."

Again, it seemed, the whole room let out its breath, but this time Susan had only eyes for Edmund, who seemed to be fighting the grip of some powerful emotion.

"Truly, Sister," he said, "I should have loved you the less if you had taken him." He tightened his hold on her hand, as if to reassure himself that she really was still in front of him, and Susan answered his touch with a reassuring squeeze. "And I tell you," he added, "that at the first coming of the Tisroc's ambassadors into Narnia to treat of this marriage, and later when the Prince was our guest at Cair Paravel, it was a wonder to me that ever you could find it in your heart to show him so much favour."

This was no news to Susan, but she was too much a lady to tell him so. Instead she simply nodded.

"That was my folly, Edmund," she said quietly, willing herself not to think on her behaviour of the month past, "of which I cry you mercy. Yet when he was with us in Narnia, truly this prince bore himself in another fashion than he does now in Tashbaan. For I take you all to witness," she turned to encompass those present in the room, "what marvellous feats he did in that great tournament and hastilude which our brother the High King made for him, and how meekly and courteously he consorted with us the space of seven days."

Nobody seemed ready to argue with her, but they did all seem to be waiting for her to say something else, so at last Susan lowered her eyes and concluded, "but here, in his own city, he has shown another face."

"Ah!" Sallowpad, like all Ravens, had some difficulty staying quiet for very long. "It is an old saying: see the bear in his own den before you judge of his conditions."

"That's very true, Sallowpad," said one of the Dwarves. "And another is 'come, live with me and you'll know me'."

"Yes," Edmund sighed, getting to his feet and crossing to the centre of the room, "we have now seen him for what he is: that is, a most proud, bloody, luxurious, cruel, and selfpleasing tryant."

"Then in the name of Aslan," Susan cried, finally voicing the urge that had been growing steadily in her heart for she knew not how long, "let us leave Tashbaan this very day!"

At this Edmund turned back to face her, and there was something terrible in his expression that Susan could see even from where she sat. Edmund was never unrestrainedly merry, but neither was he ever so simply, terribly grave as he looked now, and the sight of the dreadful look on his face made Susan suddenly very quiet and still as her brother spoke.

"There's the rub, Sister," he said quietly, "for now I must open to you all that has been growing in my mind these last two days and more. Peridan," he turned to nod to the courtier behind him, "of your courtesy– look to the door and see that there is no spy upon us."

Peridan, solemn under the weight of secret council, went at once to the door, and stepped outside to look down the stairway. He could see no Narnian, Archenlander or Calormene about, and felt his shoulders relax just a trifle.

"All well?" Edmund asked, and Peridan, returning, closed the door and nodded. Edmund, breathing heavily, nodded too. "So. For now we must be secret."

Everybody in the room grew very grave at this, and Susan, her stomach clenching tight to the point that she could at last no longer bear it, leaped to her feet and ran to catch her brother's hands in hers. "Oh, Edmund," she cried. "What is it? There is something dreadful in your face."

It must have pained Edmund more than anyone can really know to say what he next did. While some particularly cruel brothers might enjoy gloating over the failings of a sister, Edmund was the very farthest thing from cruel, and if he could have spared Susan the fright of what he had to share, he would have done so in a second. But there was no such option available to him, and so he strove to keep his expression as calm as he could when next he spoke.

"My dear sister and very good Lady," Edmund said gently, "you must now show your courage. For I tell you plainly we are in no small danger."

Susan, though she so desperately didn't want to know, asked him what danger that could be.

"It is this," her brother said, and looked miserably grave as he did. "I do not think we shall find it easy to leave Tashbaan."

Susan, a hot flash of fear lighting up her stomach, looked about to speak, but Edmund pressed on, refusing to let himself give way in the face of her alarm, instead delivering the explanations he knew she had been about to demand of him. "While the prince had hope that you would take him, we were honoured guests. But by the Lion's Mane, I think that as soon as he has your flat denial we shall be no better than prisoners."

At hearing this, one of the Dwarfs whistled. Susan, already trembling, could not help but flinch at the sound, and Edmund spared the Dwarf a withering glance. The little fellow fell silent, and looked appropriately sheepish, but the damage had been done. Susan's hands clutched desperately at Edmund's, and for just one moment though they stood in a room full of people, it was as though they were the only two in the world. She swayed, and Edmund steadied her; he looked stricken at having caused her such unrest, and Susan was about to reassure him that he need not look so terribly self-reproachful on her behalf when a harsh, warbly voice to the side distracted them.

"I warned your Majesties," Sallowpad squawked, "I warned you! Easily in but not easily out, as the lobster said in the lobster pot!"

The colloquial maxim was the grounding that the king and queen required to recall themselves to the problem at hand.

"I have been with the prince this morning," Edmund explained, still pressing Susan's hand between his, as if they might thereby draw some strength from one another. "He is little used (more's the pity) to having his will crossed. And he is very chafed at your long delays and doubtful answers." He hated to see the way Susan's gaze flickered and broke with his at this, and longed to reassure her that he did not hold her accountable in any way for Rabadash's actions; the man had been a tyrant long before he met Susan of Narnia, and Edmund would not for the world have seen his sister otherwise, but there were still explanations to be made.

"This morning he pressed very hard to know your mind. I put it aside -meaning at the same time to diminish his hopes- with some light common jests about women's fancies-" and if Lucy ever learned of that, he knew he'd never hear the end of it- "and hinted that his suit was likely to be cold. He grew angry and dangerous. There was a sort of threatening, though still veiled under a show of courtesy, in every word he spoke."

Susan, thinking of the prince's actions over the course of their stay in Tashbaan, could well believe it, though she found she hated to learn it from Edmund himself. Her shoulders shook, but before she could ask exactly what words Rabadash had spoken, Mr Tumnus added his own piece of unwelcome information, that his supper with the Grand Vizier of the night before had not gone as he had hoped, and that the Vizier had implied that a return to Narnia was contingent on Susan's marriage to Rabadash. Susan began to feel positively ill.

"Do you mean . . . he would make me his wife by force?" she demanded, and found she could not help but choke a little on the words.

Edmund flinched at the horrified incredulity in his sister's face, but said that yes, that was his fear. "Wife," he added grimly, "or slave which is worse." And none could hardly think to deny that.

"But–" Susan shook her head, battling both panic and confusion, "how can he?" Then, frightened that somebody would think to actually offer a detailed description of how such a vile deed might be accomplished, the Narnian queen hastened to clarify her confusion. "Does the Tisroc think our brother the High King would suffer such an outrage?"

"Sire," it was Peridan, interrupting as tactfully as only Peridan could, "they would not be so mad. Do they think there are no swords and spears in Narnia?"

Edmund passed a hand over his face, also battling the revolting thought of his sister enslaved by the madman who serves as their host, and confessed that he suspected the Tisroc feared little from such a small nation; that if the Tisroc felt anything for them it at all, it was probably something along the lines of lofty contempt. "Most likely he hopes to make one mouthful of Narnia and Archenland both."

"Let him try," blustered the Dwarf who had been too tactful to whistle. "At sea we are as big as he is. And if he assaults us by land, he has the desert to cross."

"True, friend," even in the face of their situation, Edmund had to smile at such boldfaced ferocity. "But is the desert a sure defence?" He looked to the Raven, who had been silent for a remarkable length of time. "What does Sallowpad say?"

"I know that desert well," Sallowpad, pleased of an audience, declared. "For I have flown above it far and wide in my younger days, and this is certain; that if the Tisroc goes by the great oasis he can never lead a great army across it into Archenland."

At hearing this they might all have felt very pleased, except that Sallowpad admitted immediately after that there was another way, to be reached by riding northwest, and everybody was disheartened.

"And do the Calormenes know of this Western way?" Susan asked, feeling her stomach knot and un-knot itself in a most unpleasant manner. She would not, could not, think of aught but escape. Sallowpad looked ready to answer, but before he could, the king cut him off, echoing Susan's own thoughts when he said that the question was not of war but of escape.

"For though my brother, Peter the High King, defeated the Tisroc a dozen times over, yet long before that day our throats would be cut and the Queen's grace would be the wife, or more likely, the slave, of this prince."

And that, Susan thought, was a very wrong thing to say, because the thought of the whole Envoy making one terribly final stand and dying for her sake made her knees fail her again. Edmund caught her just in time, steadied her, and held her upright, and there was much fussing over her until she told them all to stop worrying, she would manage.

"We have our weapons, King," the Dwarf who whistled pointed out, "and this is a reasonably defensible house."

"As to that," Edmund shook his head, "I do not doubt that every one of us would sell our lives dearly in the gate and they would not come at the Queen but over our dead bodies. Yet we should be merely rats fighting in a trap when all's said."

"Very true," Sallowpad bobbed in agreement. "These last stands in a house make good stories, but nothing ever came of them. After their first few repulses the enemy always set the house on fire."

Which was quite true, but probably not what anybody needed to hear, and Susan found herself bursting into tears yet again.

"I am the cause of all this," she sobbed. "Oh, if only I had never left Cair Paravel. Our last happy day was before those ambassadors came from Calormen. The Moles were planting an orchard for us . . . oh . . . oh." and she pressed her hands to her face and wept, even as she felt terribly foolish for doing it.

"Courage, Su, courage," said Edmund, and his sister thought he had never sounded as wonderful as he did then. Indeed, for the first time since the ambassadors had come, he sounded once again like her brother, and only that. Susan lifted her face to his, and was rewarded by an encouraging smile.

"Remember," he began, then cut himself off to look over her shoulder in some surprise and exclaim, "but what is the matter with you, Master Tumnus?"

Susan turned to follow his gaze, and saw Mr Tumnus was doing the horn-holding, capering thing that he did whenever he had too much going on inside to keep his outside still.

"Don't speak to me, don't speak to me," he gasped. "I'm thinking. I'm thinking so that I can hardly breathe. Wait, wait, do wait."

All of them did, since they hardly had any choice in the matter, and at last Mr Tumnus looked up again, gasped and wiped his brow and said, "the only difficulty is how to get down to our ship -with some stores, too- without being seen and stopped."

"Yes," snorted the non-whistling Dwarf, "just as the beggar's only difficulty about riding is that he has no horse."

"Wait, wait," Mr Tumnus shook his head. "All we need is some pretext for going down to our ship today and taking stuff on board."

"Yes," Edmund said doubtfully.

"Well, then," Mr Tumnus said, "how would it be if your majesties bade the Prince to a great banquet to be held on board our own galleon, the _Spendour Hyaline_, tomorrow night? And let the message be worded as graciously as the Queen can contrive without pledging her honour, so as to give the prince a hope that she is weakening."

The courtiers began to look interested, and Sallowpad beat his wings three times in excitement.

"This is very good counsel, Sire," he exclaimed, and Edmund, who well knew it, nodded impatiently for the Faun to go on. Mr Tumnus did, detailing the elaborate charade in which they would engage, going out to the bazaars and buying foodstuffs, making as if to prepare for a great feast on board the galleon.

"And then," he concluded triumphantly, "we'll all be on board tonight. And as soon as it is quite dark-"

"Up sails and out oars-!" Edmund laughed.

"And so to sea," Mr Tumnus cried jubilantly, and leaped up to dance madly about in celebration.

"And our nose Northward," cheered the whistling Dwarf.

"Running for home! Hurrah for Narnia and the North!" said the other Dwarf, cheering as well.

"And the prince waking next morning and finding his birds flown!" laughed Peridan, clapping his hands once in triumphant satisfaction.

"Oh Master Tumnus, dear Master Tumnus," Susan cried, flying over to the dear little Faun, catching his hands and joining with him in his mad caper about the room. "You have saved us all!"

It seemed that everyone else in the room thought so, too. Several courtiers cheered, two Narnians had linked arms and did a mad little jig, and one very bold Archenlander caught one of Susan's ladies about the waist and kissed her soundly. The lady turned very pink, but made no move to bid him stop; she, too, was quite giddy with the relief of it all.

"The prince will chase us," Drinian observed grimly, but Edmund only smiled.

"That's the least of my fears," he said, his own joy bolstering his words. "I have seen all the shipping in the river and there's no tall ship of war nor swift galley there." A mischievous gleam lit his eyes. "I _wish_ he may chase us! For the _Splendour Hyaline_ could sink anything he has to send after her– if we were overtaken at all."

"Sire," chortled Sallowpad, alighting from a mad little flight of glee about the ceiling, "you shall hear no better plot than the Faun's though we sat in council for seven days. And now, as we birds say, nests before eggs. Which is as much as to say, let us all take our food and then at once be about our business."

"Oh yes," Susan beamed, as Edmund caught her hand, "oh, _now_ I can eat! My stomach finally feels like itself again!"

"And glad I am to hear it," Edmund laughed, giving her hand a firm squeeze. The courtiers all parted to let them exit, and lead the way to the dining area. "Truly, Susan, I have not seen your face look thus since . . . I do not know when."

"And you, too, have less a look of indigestion about you, brother, and more one of celebration." Susan, too, laughed, and for one giddy moment they both beamed at each other, less like monarchs than they were like schoolchildren escaping for the holidays. The fresh discovery of freedom, after all, looks the same in every form, no matter what its cause.

O0O0O0O

After a light lunch taken with light hearts and much chattering, Susan took her leave of the courtiers long enough to bend her every effort and talent to compose a gracious, meticulously-worded letter that invited Rabadash to be their guest of honour at a feast the following evening. While she left the precise nature of the feast unnamed, she used language that she trusted would encourage his vanity to take over.

"Not that a great deal of encouragement is required," she murmured to Edmund, once the messenger had taken the letter to the palace.

"No indeed," Edmund said, and tightened his grip on his sister's arm, even as he tried not to think of everything that could have happened and, if he were to be perfectly honest, everything that might still, if something went wrong.

Susan, seeing the look on her brother's face and rightly guessing that what was worrying him was the same thing that was worrying her, gently bumped his shoulder with her head and told him to not look so solemn.

"We are so nearly rid of him," she said softly, and the words buoyed the hope that already hummed in the air around them. "Oh, Edmund, to be so nearly home again!"

And Edmund displayed his own gratitude by not even remembering who it was who had landed them so far away from home in the first place.

O0O0O0O

O0O0O0O

**A.N.:** This ought to have been up days earlier . . . I just forgot I had finished it! It is also, as I mentioned, the chapter wherein I borrow most heavily from Lewis's own work. I don't know why it's so much harder for me to use his words than it is to use his characters, who are really just as integral to the Chronicles as the words themselves, but there you have it: I felt awful doing it. I only hope that everyone reading this has already had the pleasure of reading _The Horse and His Boy_, and will therefore know which words are mine, and which are merely (shamefacedly) borrowed from a lovely book by a talented man.

Up next: Thieves in the Night, in which a prince finds his way back and a Royal envoy acts very un-Royal, but for a very good reason.


	18. Thieves in the Night

Thieves in the Night

O0O0O0O

Prince Corin awoke on a rooftop with the morning sun hitting him squarely in the eyes. A large gull perched beside his head and gave him politely enquiring looks.

"Hullo," said Corin, feeling a little stupid, as one must after a particularly heavy sleep in a very hard spot, "it's morning."

The gull squawked in a conversational manner and moved a bit closer, beady eyes optimistic.

"Sorry," said Corin, "I haven't anything to offer you. I'm a bit hungry myself, actually."

The gull, who knew what it meant to be hungry, squawked in sympathy. It watched with great interest as the prince stretched once or twice to ease the kinks from his neck, then made his way to the edge of the roof where he had left the drain-pipe the night before. Giving the gull a cheery nod, Corin slid down the drain-pipe and dropped neatly to the ground.

In daylight, he found, everything was just as confusing as it had been at dusk, but not nearly as ominous. Slaves from the poor little houses along the street were out and about, tending to the sort of chores that nobody would possibly do if he could get somebody else to do it for him, and Corin picked one at random to ask if he knew the way to the house occupied by the Narnian king.

The slave said nothing, and merely blinked at the boy in wonder. I am afraid Corin thought him very rude, and possibly a little stupid too, but if the prince could only have seen himself at that moment he would not have been surprised at the man's reaction. The previous day in the sun had burnt the boy's fair skin red, and made him a far from reputable-looking little fellow. His fight had blacked his left eye and lost him a tooth, and his tunic was well over torn and bloodied, to say nothing of liberally coated with grit and dust from the streets and a night spent on the roof. Given all that, it was little wonder that the slave could not be coaxed into speech, so at last Corin gave up on him and moved farther along.

"If only I keep going downhill," he told himself, "sooner or later I'm bound to come to the river. Then the worst I can do is just walk until I find the house."

Corin, you see, was thinking of the river that encircled the walls of Tashbaan. He had seen that river when the _Splendour Hyaline_ first docked, and he thought the river at the base of the city was the same one that ran beside the palace, and that he needed only to find the river again in order to find the house. Corin, I am afraid, had not paid very close attention in his Geography lessons. Had he done, he would have learned already that Tashbaan has two principal waterways. This might have slowed him down and forced him to think about the turns he had made to get to the bazaar, and he would have seen he couldn't possibly have climbed so far in such a short time. But his Geography teacher was a dreadfully dull fellow, so we can't blame Corin for not attending too closely.

Instead, cheered to have a plan in mind, he started in a more or less downward direction toward the river at the bottom of the city. It didn't take him more than two hours to reach it, but once he got there he began to think he had made a dreadful mistake, because these houses didn't look at all like the one he had left the day before; these were crowded dwellings with several families in each one. Hungry, yowling cats prowled about piles of refuse, and thin, bony children watched him with wide eyes from their perches on crumbling doorsteps.

"Well this hasn't done it at all," Corin scowled, looking about in vexation. "I thought for sure if I started for the river . . . pardon me, Madam?" he addressed a weary-looking woman with a basket on her head. She, who had never heard such a courteous address in her life, stared at him in shock. "Could you tell me," Corin said apologetically, "if I'm anywhere near the house where the Northerners are staying? It's important I get back to them."

The woman continued to stare, and Corin was on the verge of thinking nobody in the city knew how to give directions when his informant finally found her tongue. If it pleased his lordship, she explained, the riverbank palaces of the noblemen were on the northern side of the city. If his lordship were pleased to follow this very street to the north side of Tashbaan, he would come to the best homes, and from there he could ask direction to the house he sought.

"Well, that's something, then," Corin decided, and thanked the woman before heading in the direction she had indicated.

As he walked, he tried to puzzle out what had been bothering him about his location. Because the Northern envoy had been housed in a palatial house along the riverbanks, flanked by beautiful houses much like it, Corin had expected that all the waterside homes would be similarly luxurious. It had baffled him to see that such was not the case, and it was only when he saw a cluster of children crouching beside one of several foul-smelling drainage ditches, fishing about in the filth for lost valuables, that he figured out the logic behind the layout.

"Oh, I see," he said, "this is the side of the city where all the refuse runs down in these little culverts. And I suppose with the direction of the river's current, if it runs out on this side, it won't get mixed up with the river on the other side. Well that's very clever of them, then . . . but jolly tough on these folk, I think."

And, bristling with righteous indignation, Corin continued on his way through the dirty streets, fuming silently at Rabadash and his whole family for compelling their subjects to live in squalor while they dwelt in splendour at the top of the hill.

O0O0O0O

"Come now, Susan," Edmund chided his sister, "you look as though we were planning your funeral, not your bridal-party."

"Until we are safely home," Susan said grimly, "we may well be planning either."

"A not inaccurate observation," Lord Peridan murmured, joining the party already assembled in the courtyard. "For until we are clear of Calormene shores, we yet run the risk of being found out."

"And an even greater risk should we persist in discussing it in so public a place," Drinian muttered, "or have you forgotten that the street lies but yards away?" And all fell silent, chastised.

"Will her Majesty not accompany us? Perhaps in the litter?" one nobleman suggested. Susan pressed her lips together and shook her head.

"With respect, Lord Kerron," she said quietly, "I'd really rather not."

A silence fell over the party, Susan's tone reminding them that hers would be the only litter being carried by freemen; all the others in the bazaar would almost certainly be borne by slaves. For just a moment they grew solemn, and Susan seemed to realise she had been the cause of it, for it was she who first smiled and shook her head as if to chide them for taking her so seriously.

"You would all make a mistake," she laughed gaily, "in bringing me along. Surely I will be far better served to wait at home, if all I can do is dismay you so. Why," and here a note of warning that Edmund knew well entered Susan's voice, "to look at you, one would think we hadn't anything to celebrate!"

It was a much-needed reminder that they were meant to be cheerful and not glancing nervously over their shoulders, as Peridan was doing at that moment.

"Your Majesty has spoken well," one nobleman said with such forced heartiness that it embarrassed one to hear it. "Let there be none of the grim or gloomy about us hereafter, for surely we have better cause to celebrate than many."

They had better cause to worry than many, too, but it would not have been in keeping with the appearance they needed to keep up to think of it. So the whole party found smiles of a stiff and weary sort, and with dreadful, forced gaiety they took their leave of the grave-looking queen and started to the market to profess a spirit of happiness, all the while longing for nothing more than home.

O0O0O0O

By the time Corin was halfway around the city, the sun had begun to descend behind the Tisroc's palace. Corin's stomach growled fiercely as he walked, and his mouth began to feel shrivelled. The thing about walking all day with the sun beating down on you is that it is a dreadfully hot, thirsty business. Corin managed to keep on in small part because he was young and healthy, and in large part because he was too stubborn to give up. Still, it was beginning to wear on him, and he found he had to rest a moment beside a rain barrel under a drain-pipe. On peering into the barrel he found it held a quantity of water, and though there was no dipper, his mouth was so dry that he thought nothing of sticking his face in and taking a long drink. It wasn't very refreshing, since it doesn't rain much in Calormen, but when you're that thirsty even stale water tastes better than none.

Head wet and water drunk, Corin struck out again. Before long the sun dipped behind the topmost part of the city, casting the lower streets into cool shadow. The approaching supper hour reminded Corin how long it had been since he had eaten his orange, and a deeper, more painful grumble shook his stomach in a way he didn't much care for.

Corin wasn't used to hunger. There was always food to be had at home, even if it wasn't a proper meal time. Some parents may be strict about snacking between meals, but King Lune was not one of them. The only time Corin had gone without food before was when he was small and had wandered out of the garden and missed his tea, and he didn't reminder that being anything so bad as this.

"I suppose," he reflected as he kept walking, moving from the east side to the north-east side of the city, "that this is good, though. Because if a fellow doesn't know what it's like to be hungry, he might find it trickier to be in sympathy with those who are. If I've got to be king someday, it might be good for me to know what it's like to be hungry, if only for a little while."

It was a very good speech, and it's only a shame there wasn't anyone around to hear it. By now he had reached a much nicer part of the city and everybody was inside, tucking into hot meals and good wine that could be smelled from the street. The aroma made Corin's stomach hurt even worse than before, and even as suppers were finished and cleared, and the shadows lengthened, Corin clung to the thought of food ahead, and kept reminding himself that this was good for him, and should really be looked on as a test of endurance.

"King Peter's probably hungry up North right now," he decided. "I mean, they've got to have rationing, surely, with so many soldiers. They can't expect to be fed by the people they meet along the way. I'll ask King Edmund how the food is parceled out on a campaign. Bother, I really ought to know these things."

By now Corin had moved from the nicer parts of the city into the very nicest parts. All down along the north face of the city were lovely, grand palaces, and closer to the water beautiful low homes were spread out along the river bank. "Right," he said, "I suppose now I had better ask somebody."

This was easy enough to say, but it took several tries to put into effect. After Corin had rattled four gates and shouted at three more, an irate servant in superior livery came hurrying out to ask Corin just what he thought he was about.

"Silence!" he hissed, flapping his hands at the boy. "Urchin! My mistress is most distressed by your noise. You have been causing her upsets of the nerves."

"What, by a bit of shouting?" Corin looked surprised. The servant drew up in righteous affront.

"My mistress is of an extremely excitable and delicate nature."

"Well, I'm awfully sorry, then," said Corin, who had little use for excitable and delicate natures, "but it's frightfully important I get some directions. I need to know how to get back to the house of the Narnian king. Do you know it?"

The servant appeared momentarily torn between the advisability of retreating inside to let Corin shout, and the wisdom of directing this bedraggled child to somebody else's gate. In the end Corin decided it for him, when he took on a dangerous scowl and moved to rattle the gate again.

"Yes, yes, all right!" the servant said hastily, and motioned for Corin to not move. "The barbarian king is housed in one of the guest palaces on the north face." He pointed over Corin's head, to a point high in the side of the city.

"But I thought it was lower down," Corin said, "you know, beside the river."

"Ignorance," the servant scoffed. "The secondary river comes from the middle of Tashbaan. It runs down the north face, and joins the primary river at the bottom of the city. The Tisroc's garden is on the far side of the water, and the guest palaces on the near side."

Corin nodded impatiently, perfectly willing to accept this as truth if it got him home any faster.

"All right, and how far up the what-d'you-call-it, secondary river, is it, then?"

It took some coaxing, but with a few stalls and one vigorous rattle of the gates he managed to extract a detailed set of directions from the servant. Then Corin, who for all his faults really was a polite boy, thanked the man with all sincerity and set out for the street indicated. The next street up was wider than the one below, and a breeze blew through it. As he neared the water and the shadows lengthened, cooling the streets, Corin found he was shivering a bit in his torn clothes.

"First thing I'll do after eating," he thought, "is put on something warm." Then, even with his eyes nearly swollen shut, the back of his neck burnt from the sun, and his whole face one awful ache, he started to laugh, since not once since setting foot in Tashbaan had he wanted to put on something warm.

On the strength of his own laughter Corin made it to the street the servant had promised was that of the Tisroc's guest palaces, and found that he finally recognised his surroundings. He quickened his step, turning down the narrow, smelly street that the servants all used to get into the kitchens and back gardens, since he had determined it might be wisest if he were not to go in the front gates.

"If they see me like this," he reasoned, "they'll ask no end of questions, and I'll be for it. Best if I can get in unseen and tidy up a bit first. That way even if they're cross I've been gone so long, they won't be able to scold me for being a mess."

It took him a try or two to find a spot in the back lane that would let him get into the garden. In the end this was accomplished by using a heap of rubbish positioned just under the corner of the wall. Corin scrambled to the top (getting well covered in rubbish as he did) and with two tries pulled himself onto the wall.

On the verge of dropping into the garden, Corin reconsidered. Looking down the length of the garden, he realised that the roof of the back verandah lay below the wall itself. Above the verandah, he remembered, was that jolly big room where the Calormenes weren't permitted to enter. That, he thought, was just the ticket– at this hour, surely nobody would be about, and he'd be able to sneak in and slip down to his own room and have a good wash before anybody noticed.

It was surprisingly easy to balance along the top of the wall, but then, Corin had done that sort of thing a hundred times before; if you live near a wood then you'll know what sport it is to walk along fallen trees and try to keep your balance. He reached the end of the wall in a twinkling, and with great care dropped down to the roof. From there it was only a matter of finding a toehold or two in the wall of the palace before he could swing a hand out to catch hold of the window-sill. Instead of catching the sill, though, he caught hold of a vase, then almost at once lost hold again and sent it tumbling down into the room beyond with a crash.

Hoping fervently that the sound wasn't enough to bring anybody running, Corin focused on getting a secure grip. I don't imagine you can understand what a dreadful strain it was for him, but after sleeping on a hard roof, walking all day in the sun and having nothing to eat and only a bit of rainwater to drink, I don't suppose there are ten boys in a hundred who could have made it. But Corin was a boy in a million, and he had an appallingly stubborn streak, so he set his teeth (all except the one he'd lost) and kept at it until at last, at last, his head was over the sill, then his shoulders, and then finally he got his leg over and swung into a sitting position. Only then did he spare the time to look around, and he got rather a nasty shock when he saw an odd little fellow about his own age, though perhaps somewhat on the leaner side, sitting up on the sofa and staring back at him through eyes that were startlingly, frighteningly, Corin's own.

Corin stared a moment, his head reeling from heat, hunger, climbing and thirst, and then demanded, "who are you?"

The bedraggled apparition on the sofa didn't answer him directly. Instead it stared at him just as hard, and asked, "are you Prince Corin?"

"Yes of course," Corin said, and wished his whole head wasn't hurting quite so badly, "but who are you?"

"I'm nobody, nobody in particular, I mean," the boy said, and looked so awkward about it that Corin felt badly for him, though he didn't know why. "King Edmund caught me in the street and mistook me for you. I suppose we must look like one another. Can I get out the way you've got in?"

"Yes," Corin said, dropping to the ground and feeling he was in a dream, "if you're any good at climbing. But why are you in such a hurry?" Excitement seized him even through his thirst and hunger. "I say, we ought to be able to get some fun out of this being mistaken for one another."

This plan, however, did not commend itself to the other boy, and he vetoed it straight away, insisting that they had to trade places at once. "And," he added, "you're starting tonight – secretly. And where were you all this time?"

Corin began to explain, and found it flummoxed even him. Had he really done so much in such a short time? It seemed like ages ago that he had started down the street to see about making something happen. There had been the market, which also seemed an age ago, and that wretched boy with the ready tongue and beastly brother, and the Watch . . . had it really been only yesterday? The roof on which he'd slept, and the gull, and the awful maze of streets and the sun . . .

"Ever since that," he concluded, "I've been finding my way back. I say," remembering his parched throat, "is there anything to drink?"

"No, I drank it," admitted the boy. "And now, show me how you got in. There's not a minute to lose. You'd better lie down on the sofa and pretend– but I forgot. It'll be no good with all those bruises and black eye. You'll just have to tell them the truth, once I'm safely away."

This, it must be confessed, put Corin's back up. "What else did you think I'd be telling them?" he demanded. "And," realising he still didn't know, "who_ are_ you?"

The stranger, however, was of the opinion that this was of little consequence beside his need to be off, so Corin described how he had gotten in to begin with.

"Now drop; lightly I say," he cautioned, and watched as the boy dropped, feeling somehow very sorry that he couldn't hang about a bit longer. In a burst of feeling he added, "I hope we meet in Archenland. Go to my father King Lune and tell him you're a friend of mine." Then his head jerked around in real alarm at the sound of a rustle and footfall in the corridor beyond. "Look out! I hear someone coming."

I'm afraid he didn't even watch to see that the boy got safely away. Instead he crossed the room, hoping to get away to his own room before he was caught. In this, though, he failed. Just before he could reach the door, Queen Susan reached it from the other side. She stepped in from the hallway, and Corin saw, with a dreadful sort of pang, that she looked somehow very tired and strained.

"Oh," he said, and didn't like that he sounded frightened, "what's wrong?"

Susan, for her part, stared in complete shock at this phenomenon– a little boy she had left in rags but comparative health now standing before her in muddied, bloodied finery with a horrible mess of a face.

"Corin," she faltered, "Corin, my– hast hurt thyself?"

And then her voice broke, and her knees gave way, and suddenly Corin found himself under her, bearing her up and looking into her face with such concern and resolve that Susan didn't think to send for more adult help. Instead she let the prince help her to the nearest sofa before he ran to the door and shouted for food and water and "something good for a lady who's gone all wonky in the legs." Then he flew back to her side and demanded to know who had upset her.

"Nobody, my little champion," Susan said, laughing and crying at once, "nobody; 'tis just the strain of being merry for the sake of everyone else. One would think it might grow easier, with time. Only . . . darling," and now she sounded like a mother, rather than a courtly lady, "Corin, darling, what's happened to you?" So Corin told her, in perfect detail, everything that had happened to him since he had seen her last, and Susan's eyes grew round with wonder.

"But what a time hast had," she cried softly, and touched the dear little face. "And this– this boy who looks so like you. What has become of him?"

"Gone, I suppose," said Corin. "He said he was escaping to the North."

"I pray it may be so," Susan murmured, her graceful hands knotting restlessly in her lap. "For if he was a spy, set on us by the Calormenes, then truly, princeling, all is lost." And she detailed for Corin the escape plan that the strange boy had spoken of only with greatest brevity. Corin was impressed by the cleverness of it. "We all of us owe our lives to Mr Tumnus," Susan concluded, and Corin noted that speaking of their escape eased certain tensions from her face and neck. "King Edmund will send for us when they are safely aboard ship. I have seen to your packing . . . do you mind?"

Corin, who hated packing, promised he didn't mind in the least. Then one of Susan's two ladies entered with a servant bearing trays of fruit and a deep, cold pitcher of clear water. On a separate tray, borne by the lady herself, was a small vial of something smelly that Susan insisted she did not need.

"His highness, however," she smiled, "could do with a scrub. Can you see to a bath for him, while he sees to the food?"

So while Corin gobbled grapes, melons, pears and downed goblets brimming with icy water, a hot bath was drawn and fresh clothes readied. He had a grand time soaking his weary self in the steaming tub, and didn't even mind very much when Susan's lady called through the door to remember to wash his neck. Once he was scrubbed clean and wearing clothes that made him feel more himself again, he went in search of Susan and found her in the courtyard, talking and even laughing a bit with Lord Peridan, who had only just arrived.

"I looked in the glass," he called, racing to join them, "and good luck, it's one of my first teeth– you know, from when I was little. It was loose anyway. I thought I'd have a gap forever, and at first I thought it would make me look fierce but then I started to think what hard going it would be to chew my food so– I say," seeing Susan and Peridan turn to face him, smiling, "what is it?"

Susan's smile was positively joyful. "King Edmund," she explained, "has sent for us. All is readied, and he requests our presence aboard ship. He does," she added, "stress a certain urgency. He asks that we present ourselves within an hour's time, else he will fear we are waylaid, and send a guard in search of us."

"Will you want the litter, my lady?" Peridan wondered.

"Oh, I suppose I ought," Susan frowned, "but truly, I don't like to. It makes it look like I agree with it, and I don't– using slaves to bear one about, treating men like pack animals. It's positively indecent."

Corin was on the verge of pointing out that a queen walking through the city would look a hundred times worse to the Calormenes when another messenger was announced, and entered the courtyard with a message. Susan took it in hand and read it, and a very different expression came over her face.

"What is it?" Corin demanded, and the Queen, looking quite pale, answered.

"Rabadash. He requests my presence."

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**A.N.:** This is, believe it or not, the last chapter before we get to something pre-written! I hope it satisfied, and thank you all so much for your encouragement.

Up next: The Room at the Top of the Stairs and What Happened There, in which we see just that.


	19. The Room at the Top of the Stairs

The Room at the Top of the Stairs, and What Happened There

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"Cheek!" Corin cried, and Susan fought not to laugh. "Who does he think he is to send for you like that?"

"He thinks he is to become my betrothed," she said, "which would naturally give him a certain entitlement." Her eyes scanned the lines once more. "He doesn't invite me to the palace; 'tis a house near the river mouth. He understands we are preparing for a banquet, and will not detain me long, but feels we must speak." She looked to the messenger. "It says you are instructed to take me there."

"To hear is to obey," said the messenger, and Susan thought it didn't quite fit the situation but didn't say so. Instead she glanced to Lord Peridan, and passed him the note. He read it and his lips tightened. Susan, quietly, asked what he thought.

"I cannot advise your Majesty in this," he explained, looking helpless. "It would not look well. It is a matter of courtship, and scarcely my place."

"You are trusted by my brothers," Susan said quietly, "and a friend to our kingdom. I would hear your counsel."

So the messenger was told to wait outside, and Peridan gave his answer in a low voice.

"I cannot see my way clear to advising you to meet with him; unchaperoned, in an unknown house? Majesty, if aught were to befall you . . ."

"The worst that could befall me," Susan said calmly, "is to see my brother, our countrymen and our allies sell their lives for my sake. I would see myself the bride of this man before I permitted such an atrocity, so you must think of all the prince could do to me as merely the . . . second-worst that could befall me."

Under these new instructions, however, Peridan was still loathe to advise Susan to comply with Rabadash's demands. He did admit, though, that to defy them would clearly raise dangerous suspicions in the Prince's mind, and so confessed he could not entirely counsel her _against _complying, either.

"Only I beg of you, Madam," he concluded, "that if you do consent to see him, you take with you a guard of some sort."

"Of a very strange sort," Susan said, and looked round her rather helplessly. "You know as well as I that my lord King has taken the noblemen to the markets. The guard such as could be composed of our household now would consist of my ladies, two Dwarfs, a Faun, a Raven and his Highness, save your lordship."

"And the slaves," piped up Corin. "Who aren't slaves anymore, that is."

"They, too, have been sent to the ship," Susan sighed, and pressed a trembling hand to her brow, as if to stir her thoughts into action. At last she looked up and spoke with newfound resolve. "I will accept his invitation. To decline could betray the flight planned by our company. I would ask your lordship to accompany me–" Peridan bowed– "and I also ask for Tumnus and Sallowpad. The Dwarfs and my ladies will accompany his Highness to the ship."

Corin didn't think much of this plan, but Susan knelt before him and said, ever so gently, that she feared she must insist. "Rabadash is a man of temper," she explained, "and I know thou canst understand what this means better than most. But you, my little champion, are gifted with a sense of honour he does not possess, and I would not have you endangered by it. Should he say aught to dismay you . . . I will not have you there, else I might see you wounded on my behalf. Will you honour me in this?"

Corin, though you may know he hated to, promised that he would. "But if you tell him you want to come home and he still tries to keep you here," he added, his eyes flashing, "I'll call him out, I really will!"

And Susan knew Corin too well to doubt.

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When Susan's company reached the building Rabadash had named, they found a small family of people she assumed were the rightful occupants huddling outside the door in abject terror. Frowning slightly, Susan turned to Sallowpad and asked him if some money could be found to compensate them. Sallowpad, who had no pockets, turned to Lord Peridan and repeated the question, and a few crescents were found to give to the astonished Calormenes.

"For your inconvenience," Susan explained when she saw their confusion, but the explanation only seemed to confound them more, so she gave up and signalled that she was ready to go inside. There was some consternation when the group that composed her guard learned she intended to face Rabadash alone, and at hearing this news they tried to protest, but she insisted.

"We are still guests," she cautioned them, "and it would be the farthest thing from diplomatic if you were to come with me. It would seem I expected treachery."

"With all due respect, your Majesty," Sallowpad fluffed up his feathers anxiously, "I scarcely see how you cannot."

Susan smiled and said if she had anyone to fear, it was not Rabadash but her brother, if she did not reach to the ship on time. None of her guard looked any happier about this, but Susan would not be swayed and told them all they were to await her outside, save for Mr Tumnus, who would be allowed to go in with her if he chose (as he certainly did; he was not about to let his queen walk into that little home unescorted).

Once inside, Mr Tumnus and Susan were directed up a dark, narrow flight of stairs that had a narrow door at the top. A guard stood outside the door, looking very grim and impressive, and when Mr Tumnus and Susan stopped on the step below him, he asked if she was the Queen Susan. Susan had been about to reply that she was when Mr Tumnus spoke up in a manner quite unlike him.

"You presume to look down on Her Majesty?" he fairly thundered, for indeed, the guard stood on the top step and Susan stood on the step under him. The guard blinked at Mr Tumnus, clearly not knowing if he should take this funny creature seriously, but Mr Tumnus was plainly unwilling to be trifled with.

"Her Royal Majesty, Queen Susan of Narnia, comes at the personal invitation of Prince Rabadash," Mr Tumnus declared, looking somehow grand and terrible all at once, "and I charge you, is it worth the wrath of your Prince to challenge the gracious lady who comes under the bond of his protection?"

The mention of the wrath of the prince was what did it. The frightened guard stood aside and Susan turned to smile fondly at the Faun.

"Dear Mr Tumnus," she said, laying a hand on his arm, "Narnia should be a sorry place without friends like you."

I don't suppose you have ever seen a Faun blush, for they do not do it often. There is a very good reason for this, too, as it makes them look very comical indeed. Mr Tumnus blushed now, and he looked as ridiculous as a blushing Faun ever could, so it took a great feat of strength on Susan's part to not look amused at the sight of him. She likely only managed not to laugh because she knew how much it would hurt his feelings if she did; still, on the strength of that knowledge she did him the courtesy of ignoring the blush and speaking more formally, as a queen would to a subject.

"We would ask that you wait here," she told him, "and we will leave the door ajar." Mr Tumnus nodded gratefully. Susan was about to walk in when he caught at her arm, and, with one eye on the watchful guard, chose his words carefully.

"If you have any need of me, Your Majesty, you have only to lift your voice. I will be standing by."

Susan smiled again, the warm, brilliant smile that had first captured Rabadash to begin with. Mr Tumnus did not fall in love at the sight of the smile but he certainly flushed a brilliant scarlet, and at the sight of the berry-red Faun his queen's smile broadened before she turned and went through the door, into the room beyond.

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When Susan entered the room at the top of the stairs, she found it only marginally better-lit than the stairwell. She wondered at Rabadash's taking command of this grim little place rather than coming to the _Splendour Hyaline_ directly, but supposed he might prefer the thrill of compelling her to come to him, rather than giving her the satisfaction of seeing him come to her. Amused anew at the overweening vanity of the man, her smile began to broaden but fell quite quickly when she saw the prince himself.

He stood boldly in the middle of the room, and he probably thought he looked very impressive in his silken robes, especially given the dingy surroundings. Susan, though, only thought how very much he seemed like a pompous little boy playing dress-up, and she found again the urge to smile. Smiling, though, would not do; she must remain a queen at all times, which meant that no matter how he amused, frightened or repulsed her, she would not be able to show it.

It would have been easier to preserve such dignity were she home in Narnia at Cair Paravel, and for just one moment Susan wished that she were. The hills of her own home had never seemed so far away; nor had her family. It was those hills that Peter had gone off to defend, and it was in those hills that her sister might even now be sitting, wondering what was keeping them away so long.

The thought of Lucy strengthened Susan. She knew Lucy would not let this silk-draped monkey annoy or worry her. Lucy would be hard-put not to laugh in his face, and though Susan knew she would retain her composure better than that, she wished for a moment that she might possess even a fraction of her little sister's strength of will to help her better face the prince.

It's an odd thing how this can happen, but as Susan stood facing Rabadash and wishing she might have just a bit of Lucy's nerve, she started to feel a bit more like Lucy herself. She began to stand straighter and her nose took on a haughty tilt that her brothers would have recognised at once as a special trait of Lucy's whenever she was preparing to be particularly stubborn. Suddenly feeling almost as confident as she would have done had her whole family been standing with her, Susan stepped forward and addressed Rabadash with perfect grace.

"Your Highness requested an audience?"

It was a particularly clever thing, her phrasing it like that, since of course Rabadash would not have seen it that way. He would have said (had you asked him) that he had not requested any such thing, but rather that _he_ was granting an audience to _her_. Susan could see by his immediate frown that he was annoyed by the way she had said it, and she hid a tiny thrill of satisfaction.

"_First blood!"_ Lucy's voice seemed to cheer in her head, and Susan smiled serenely at the thought.

"Indeed," Rabadash squinted at Susan, trying to make out if there was something different about her. "Loathe as I am to interrupt the preparations for tomorrow's merriment, I could not contain my desire to see you once more. To see you," his voice took on the soft, honeyed tones that had become so repulsive to her, "and perhaps to hear from your own lips what your message of some hours previous has made me dare to hope; that you have at last consented to be my bride."

At this declaration, Susan went quite cold and still. She and Edmund and all their court had so hoped Mr Tumnus's plan would be enough to stave off Rabadash until after they had fled, but now it became apparent she would have to do so for herself, if only for a while longer. Very careful not to flush or show any other signs of distress, she kept her tones steady and formulated her reply with great care.

"My lord," she spoke cautiously, "while your ardour commends you–"

"Indeed, my Queen," Rabadash interrupted her, his eyes dangerously narrowed, "perhaps I might better have said I came with the express purpose of hearing from your own lips that you now consent to being my bride."

"My lord." She struggled to maintain the chill that was serving her so well, but was daunted by the fact that Rabadash, dissimilarly favoured with such composure, did not even make an effort as his eyes blazed and he clenched first one hand, then the other. "Your eagerness would do you credit, did it not inspire you to the rudeness of interrupting a lady as she spoke."

"My apologies for my fervour, but I feel I must make my ardour known. Perhaps," his eyes glittered, "I might best express myself by saying that your entire party would profit immeasurably by your consent." He took just one small step toward the queen, and leaned slightly forward in a predatory manner. The words he next spoke were too honeyed to be palatable and too smooth to be trusted, and what was perhaps worst of all, the chill behind them touched Susan's very heart.

"You wish your noble brother long life and good health, do you not, Your Majesty?"

And that did it. Until that point, Susan had vowed to avoid an outright denial, but the barely-veiled threat was more than she could stand.

"Do not speak so carelessly of a man worth ten of you," she hissed, and at the venom in her voice even Rabadash blinked, disconcerted. "Do not dare to speak of him, nor to bargain for a Narnian bride, my lord, for I could never consent to be the bride of a man who would win me by force."

"Surely, O Queen," Rabadash smiled, and the way he said it suggested he found her refusal a mere trifle to be gotten around by a few pretty words and postures, "you cannot mean that. I may have spoken out of turn, I will grant you, for it is well said that the fires of young love strike truer than lightning and rage fiercer than the fires at the heart of this world. But surely the admiration I feel for your great beauty must pardon the . . . passion of my impatience."

Susan drew her shoulders back, and had Lucy seen her then she would have been very proud of her indeed, for she had never looked more like a queen than she did at that moment; nor had she sounded more like one than when she gave her reply, as haughtily as anybody could have wished.

"Feel as you please about me; opinions, as I have learned whilst in your city, matter little to a slave, and should I give my consent to your suit I should _be_ only your slave, though you might call me wife."

Not, perhaps, the most perceptive of men, Rabadash kept the smile in place as he made a pretty gesture to her that in Calormen means one is conveying a sort of gentle honour, but to Susan looked like he was brushing away a fly.

"Nay," Rabadash spoke as coaxingly as a prince can ever know how, "I will call you any manner of the prettiest names you choose, if you would but consent to be my own one. Lovely prize, adored princess- I should even name you my queen, if these are titles that would amuse."

Susan, now truly offended, gave him her answer the way she imagined Lucy might, if she had been insulted.

"Names and titles do not last beyond this lifetime, and therefore they matter not. Indeed, I should think the worse of you for imagining they might matter to me. What makes one a slave is not one's title but the way one is treated."

"Good lady," Rabadash cooed (and the most astonishing part is that he truly could not tell how angry Susan was. But then, that is often the way of high-born men, who are used to having their own way. They forget that other people like to have some thoughts of their own) "I shall treat you as a most precious treasure."

"And no doubt," Susan stomped her foot in a way that was entirely Lucy's, but at the moment suited her almost as well as it did her sister, "I shall be locked away like a precious treasure, too!"

It was only here that Rabadash began to understand he had made some sort of serious error. If he had been a quick-witted man, or even one of some sort of nobility and intelligence, he might yet have been able to make a reply graceful enough to soothe the ruffled temper of a very angry queen. But Rabadash was not quick-witted, nor was he intelligent or noble. He wasn't really even very good. So he made a sort of bow that, although a Calormene custom, was at least recognizable to Susan as a sort of gesture that meant he thought she was very nice, and offered what he thought would be a pleasant reply (because even after spending so much time with her, he really didn't know Susan very well at all).

"As befits the wife of a powerful man," he flattered, "and the delight of his eyes, of course you should be most guarded. I would never insult you by not providing my loveliest wife with the fiercest guards, the most dangerous of protectors, the-"

"–most competent jailers," Susan finished coolly, and at last Rabadash saw he had not just tripped up a bit during his speechmaking, but had in fact made some very serious blunders.

It is a funny thing, too, how powerful men react when they realise they may not have their way. Susan had seen it happen some few times before, but it had never looked quite the same each time. She always knew what it was she was seeing, though, and she knew it as she saw it now. Rabadash's mouth opened and closed once or twice, and his eyes got bigger as his cheeks grew paler, then flushed very dark indeed. His eyes narrowed abruptly and he stopped bowing, instead straightening to his full height, so he could easily look Susan in the eye (though how he had the cheek to do so I really can't imagine).

"O Queen," he said, and his soft speech had something behind it that made Susan's skin crawl, "it grieves me to understand you are ill-disposed toward me."

("And it grieves _us_," Susan might have said snappishly, "that you did not see it sooner." But queens must be polite, and Susan was the sort of lady who always did what she ought, so she didn't say it, though I may tell you in confidence that she would have liked to very much.)

"Indeed," Rabadash went on, his eyes growing even narrower as he spoke, "it grieves me to believe that you may in fact have been entertaining this frame of mind for some time, while all the time paying me any number of most _intimate_ courtesies that encouraged me to believe you had all but accepted me."

("Though what those courtesies might have been," Susan longed to tell him, "I am sure I couldn't say." She had encouraged him, she knew, but had not offered the sort of attentions he seemed to imply she had. Yet still she held her tongue, and we really must admire her for it since it takes far greater strength of character to keep silent in the face of false accusations than it does to repudiate them.)

"When I met with your brother this morning I could not credit his . . . implication that you would refuse me as being anything more than a misguided, though understandable, desire to keep his lovely sister close. Instead, I chose to give you the benefit of my patience and better nature."

("And if that which you have shown us is your better nature," Susan's tongue itched to inform him, "I should be loathe to see your worst." But Susan was stronger than her tongue, and I do wish you might see how splendid and regal she looked as she held it.)

"Now, though, that I see you are so ill-disposed toward me," and he took a step toward her that could not have meant any good for Susan, had she not flashed her eyes so terribly at him that he actually drew back, "I find myself less kindly-inclined to the thought of waiting on the queen's favour for an answer to my suit."

Now at last Susan spoke, and you may be as disappointed as I to hear she did not say anything particularly cutting to him, because of course when a queen is in a foreign country she must be diplomatic, even if her suitor has behaved terribly. Nor was she able to tell him that she was leaving that very night, since she had a terrible feeling such an announcement would ensure she never saw Narnia again. Instead, she stood quite straight and chose her words with care, and as she addressed him, she looked most serene and reserved and really quite magnificent. She didn't even try to be like Lucy as she spoke, but it was no great loss; if anything, she looked all the better for it, since of course we are at our most impressive when we are being ourselves (unless one happens to be like Rabadash, in which case one really ought to keep silent).

"Your highness," she said, although the way she said it suggested she did not think him very high at all, "we are sorry for any misapprehension you might have suffered while enjoying the hospitality of our Royal brother. We also regret any misunderstanding that may have arisen from our acceptance of your generous invitation to visit with you in your own land, and enjoy its many beauties. We ask, too, that you believe no insult has been intended in any of our treatment of you.

"However," and here her eyes flashed just a little, and she drew herself up just a little straighter, so that even Rabadash had to fall back a bit in awe, "we must caution you, Sir, that no manner of courtship which hints at force being employed to win the prize deserves the courtesy of our attention, and mayhap does not even deserve the title of courtship at all, but rather that of abduction. We must also warn you that our Royal brothers will not look kindly on any ill treatment of their sister. Finally, we offer the courtesy of a chance to graciously withdraw your suit no later than the occasion of the banquet tomorrow night, on pain," and here she spoke with utter contempt, "of looking perfectly ridiculous."

It really was an impressive speech; Queens and Princesses are taught that sort of thing early on, you see, because they get many offers of marriage and can hardly be expected to accept them all, but the way Susan said it was so wonderfully superior that it made it all the more awe-inspiring. What Rabadash might have replied to this magnificent speech when he had regained his wits and collected his jaw (which had dropped somewhere around the part about hospitality and stayed dropped all the way through to the end) I cannot begin to imagine, but it would surely have been nothing complimentary. However, before he could marshal his thoughts, a respectful knock sounded on the doorframe and Susan, her eyes never leaving the prince, bade the knocker enter.

It was Mr Tumnus, looking apologetic as he coughed delicately into his fist and murmured that His Majesty was awaiting Her Majesty's pleasure to join him. Susan, without a word, inclined her head and swept out of the room, leaving Mr Tumnus to steal a quick glance at the flabbergast prince. He was not the sort of cruel Faun to gloat over another man's downfall, but he was a Narnian, after all, and all loyal Narnians love their kings and queens, so Mr Tumnus had naturally been every bit as concerned for the fate of Queen Susan as the rest of the envoy. They knew her far too well to believe she would not have given herself up for their sakes if it had come to that, and it had been a great relief to all of them (Mr Tumnus included) when Mr Tumnus had been able to think of a solution.

So now, although he refused to gloat over the prince, as he closed the door behind Queen Susan Mr Tumnus told himself that there was nothing in the least wrong about being proud of Her Majesty, since to all appearances she really had cut the fellow down. And so Mr Tumnus first permitted himself the very largest smile he had ever worn in his entire life as he looked over his shoulder at the dumbfounded prince, then ever so haughtily shut the door, leaving Rabadash to think about what he had done up to this point and determine where, exactly, he had started to go wrong.

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**A.N.:** Susan nearly gave it all away! But of course Rabadash has to be not entirely certain that the ship has gone, so she couldn't tip her hand too much. The scene at the top of the stairs was actually the first thing I wrote for this story. Can you believe this whole thing was originally meant to be a one-shot? The exchange between Susan and Rabadash just popped into my head, and I adore Susan so I was only too happy to write it down. Then I read it over and thought "but what comes before this?" and over one year later, here I am, torturing you all with such glee. Thank you so much for sticking with me this long!

Up next: Up Sails and Out Oars, wherein we see our heroes home.


	20. Up Sails and Out Oars

Up Sails and Out Oars

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Surely no brother had ever been as glad to see his sister as was King Edmund when he set eyes on Susan walking through the crowds on the Tashbaan dock. She made her way to the gangplank of the _Splendour Hyaline_, and by the time she reached the top her brother could not decide whether he most wanted to shake her for worrying him so, or embrace her and never let her go again. He settled for shaking her shortly before pulling her into a crushing embrace that made her cough rather badly, and forced Edmund to step back to offer his apologies for his fervour.

"You're late," he scolded, and in answer Susan made a sound that was half laugh, half sob, and flung her arms about Edmund's neck for a hug of her own.

"I couldn't help it, but I _am_ sorry," she murmured, and cast a quick glance around. "Might we go below deck?" she wondered, and Edmund said certainly. He escorted her down into the room where Corin was settling in, then excused himself to retreat above deck. At the sight of Susan the prince broke into a smile and rushed across the room, stopping just before he reached her to sketch out a shoddy sort of bow and then let her take up his hands in hers.

"Did he try to keep you?" he demanded, and Susan, too wearied from the past three weeks to even attempt something like courtly speech, simply admitted that Rabadash had expressed sentiments along those lines. Corin looked as black as thunder for just a moment, until the light pat of a hand on his recalled him to himself.

"Mr Tumnus intervened at a strategic moment," Susan explained, and smiled in a way that was the closest to her old self that she would ever be again. Corin was satisfied with this explanation, and even consented to seat himself beside the queen and, at her request, describe his own journey to the docks.

"It's really easy once you've got somebody who knows where to go," he marvelled, and Susan said yes, that was the oddity of travel, wasn't it?

"And soon," she sighed, sinking back against the cushions on the bench built into the wall of the small stateroom, "soon we will be home again." And there was a sort of weary hunger in her voice as she said this that made Corin look askance.

"Are you all right?" he asked, and sounded uneasy enough that Susan, as she had done for as long as she could remember, found a cheering smile and a reassurance that yes, of course she was.

"Perhaps a trifle wearied," she murmured, and one restless hand gently brushed a lock of Corin's hair back from his brow, "but quite well, thank you." She looked toward the narrow door and the flight of stairs beyond it. "Wouldn't you like to go watch them make ready to sail?"

Corin did, very much, but there was something so odd about the manner of his "favourite grown-up lady" that he felt an even stronger inclination to stay where he was. He even slipped a hand into Susan's as he sat there beside her, as he had not done in years, ever since he was a toddling little thing without a mama to pull him back from sharp edges, and Susan a girl in need of someone to mother.

"Not this time," he decided, and stayed where he was. As darkness fell around the ship, and the sails were raised, the anchor weighed and the great vessel moved silently through the water to the river mouth, Prince and Queen sat together below deck, each thinking on what they had left behind, where they were headed now, and all that awaited them there.

O0O0O0O

On taking his leave of his sister and their young charge, King Edmund returned to the deck where the Northerners were scuttling about in the descending dusk, trying to look as if they were thinking about parties. He had a quiet word with the captain, who had only just been apprised of the true nature of their arrival on board, then went in search of Lord Peridan. Peridan, who was helping the Lords Kerron and Mertin oversee the stowing of their provisions, was willing to give the king a moment of his time when Edmund promised that he would be brief.

"I must thank you," Edmund explained, "for your accompaniment of Her Majesty to her audience with the Prince. I would not for the world have had her face him alone."

"My lord is generous in his gratitude," Peridan said, looking troubled. "I fear my lady queen would not even permit me to accompany her inside the dwelling; it has caused me no little unrest ever since. Was it not my duty to protect her?"

"'Tis indeed the duty of any Narnian to defend his queen," Edmund conceded, "but 'tis also the duty of a subject to trust in the wisdom of his sovereign. If the queen's grace thought it prudent to see you remain out of doors, then I can think nothing else but that 'twere for the better. I ask you to set your mind at ease on the subject."

Peridan looked as if he might doubt his ability to do so, but promised he would try his best, all the same.

"Good man," Edmund nodded, and passed a hand over his brow. "I cannot but think that some small good has come of this voyage . . . we now know, as we have not done before, the full nature of the man who will next rule Calormen."

"We know it, certainly, Sire," Peridan acknowledged, "though I fear I cannot understand it; what manner of man who calls himself noble could ever think to court a lady thusly? Her Majesty has displayed a fortitude beyond her years and indeed beyond my ken in the face of a threat such as this."

"Aye," Edmund said, and something strange passed across his face at that moment, as he reflected on what the courtier had said. "Aye, she has shown her valour, certainly . . . but I keep you from your task," he smiled in apology, and nodded to the endeavour from which he had distracted the man. "Your forgiveness, Peridan." And he turned to summon Drinian and Jardin, the two highest-ranking Narnian courtiers aboard, to council. "For there is much yet to be considered," he observed grimly, "and 'twere well we began now."

O0O0O0O

Susan didn't even realise she had fallen asleep until she awoke, with a nervous start, to find herself tucked safely in her own bed aboard the _Splendour Hyaline_. The dress she had worn in Calormen, a light garment exquisitely fashioned of creamy silk and cotton, darkened several shades by the dust of the city streets, had been removed. She wore instead a clean sleeping-shift, and her hair had been taken down and plaited as she slept.

Rather than lifting her voice to call for her ladies, who held a small berth beside her own, Susan slid out of bed herself and felt beside her for the lamp. Her fingers closed over the smooth, cool surface of the clay reservoir, and beside the little lamp she found the sulphur-tipped splinters that would light it. Striking one against the grain of the wood on the underside of the table, she was rewarded by a spark and a small, guttering burst of flame, which she touched to the wick of the lamp. Then Susan watched as the small flame sucked greedily at the oil-damped wick, casting a soft glow on the underside of her face.

"Almost home," she whispered, for the heave and creak of the ship around her, and the gentle rush of a sea breeze in at the window, told her what her eyes did not need to; they were still well underway, and making good time as they cut through the waters of the Eastern Sea.

Susan had no idea what the hour might be, but she felt sufficiently rested to remove a dressing-gown from her cupboard and shrug into it. Then she took the little clay lamp in the palm of her hand and started for the door.

The narrow passageway beyond was lit with wall sconces, so she left her lamp in the little niche beside her own door, to be collected when she returned. Moving quietly in slippered feet, the Narnian queen walked the length of the passage and climbed the narrow steps to the deck. There, a cool breeze lifted the tendrils of hair that had escaped the single, heavy plait down her back, and a diamond-studded sky sparkled above her, bathing the decks in silvery light. Susan sighed.

"Majesty?" the voice startled her, and she spun around with a small shriek. The deckhand leaped back as well, alarmed at having alarmed her.

"Begging your pardon, Your Majesty," he said hastily, "I wasn't after frightening you, and I'm sure I don't mean to offend, only, are you well? Bein' as it's so late, and all, I only wondered . . ."

"Oh, yes," Susan nodded, every coiled nerve within her relaxing just a bit, "I'm sorry, too; I don't mean to be so . . . twitchy."

"Oh, no, Ma'am," the deckhand said with aimless fervour. "No, indeed, Ma'am."

Susan smiled. "I only came up to take the air . . . it's a lovely night, isn't it?"

"Indeed, Ma'am," the man agreed, and both looked out over the water, where the moon-road lay glittering off the port side. "Indeed, it is. Night watches is my favourite, really, on account of it's so peaceful-like, and things is just all lying still."

"Yes, that's exactly it," Susan agreed, drawing her robe a trifle closer about her as the first Northern night breeze caught the hem of her shift, and played about her ankles. "It's so very peaceful . . . one can pretend one is perfectly alone."

"Oh," said the deckhand, with some alarm, "did you want me to–"

"No!" Susan laughed, feeling alarmed and amused all at once, "no, I'm sorry, that wasn't anything like a suggestion. I only mean, it's so very quiet, one could think that one was the only person awake in the world. I didn't mean I wished you to leave."

"Well, then," the deckhand nodded respectfully, "I'll be on my way, as I've got to make a round of the place, but if you should be wanting anything, Ma'am, you just be giving me a shout, then, won't you?"

Susan promised she would, and waited until the man had moved from sight before crossing to the rail, and looking out over the water. It should have been peaceful, she thought, to see the sea look so calm around them. The winds that whipped around her now, filling the sails and bearing them home, should have spoken of the land she had thought, for one dreadful moment, she would never see again. Instead she found it was still tricky to breathe right, and couldn't quite keep her hands from tightening reflexively about every object they touched, as if it were still possible that she might at any moment be torn from it all, and carried back to Tashbaan.

She had already formally apologised to both Edmund and the envoy for her folly, making a very nice speech over their lunch the day before (Susan excelled at nice speeches). Yet she could not help but feel she ought to apologise again; if not to the entire envoy, then at least to Edmund, who had really been far better-mannered about this than he might have been.

Apologising to Edmund wasn't that bad, really; it was almost nice, and not at all like you might find it when you must apologise to a brother or sister, because Edmund had once been so very in the wrong about something that he couldn't bear to ever deny anybody forgiveness. And really Edmund had been very gracious and sweet and taken her aside after lunch and said it was all right now, they were going home and he quite forgave her, but still Susan felt she ought to say something more. And really, she didn't mind apologising to Edmund a hundred times over; she just minded having to think on everything that it was for which an apology was owed.

Before she could think on it much longer, though, a stumbling step on the deck behind her had her turning about again, half expecting to find the deckhand behind her once more. Instead it was Lord Peridan, blinking rather stupidly in the moonlight, and looking as if it would take a large vessel of exceedingly cold water to shake the sleep from him. Susan was startled.

"My lord! What turmoil sees you abroad at this hour?" she wondered, and Peridan, still looking very confused, rubbed his face and shook his head and said blast if he knew.

"Deckhand . . . dropped a bucket outside my door," he mumbled. "Sounded like he threw it, if you ask me, but why'd he do a thing like that? Asked him . . . he said the ship's cat knocked it over. Didn't even know the ship _had_ a cat. Terribly confusing . . ." Then he pulled himself a little straighter, and fought through his fatigue to offer a bow. "Forgive me, Majesty, I didn't know you were abroad as well."

"In truth I had not planned to be," Susan confessed, and looked back out over the water. Lord Peridan rubbed at his face once more, and tried not to stumble as he made his way over to the rail as well. "But I am somewhat uneasy . . . think you the Prince a man content to see his . . . goals as lost?"

Peridan, who hadn't been making much a habit of thinking of Rabadash at all, what with the harvest of his estate's crops and the fall's hunt closing in upon them, squinted doubtfully and said he was certain he couldn't say. Susan, as is the habit of those who favour tact over honesty, mistook the verity of his reply and shook her head impatiently.

"Please, do not be guarded in my presence just now. I would have your opinion, if you would honour me with the sharing of it; my brother is still abed, and I would not wake him for the world. I have," in a rare bit of candour, "caused him worry enough these past weeks."

"Is he angered, then?" Peridan queried, then wondered at his own boldness. What place of his was it to ask after the moods of the king? Susan, though, seemed entranced by the silvery dance of the moon on the water, and simply said she did not know.

"But surely, if any man has cause to be, 'tis he."

"Well," Peridan was finding it tricky to think through his weariness, but the cool salt breeze on his face was doing its best to shake from him the last of his slumber, "well, perhaps." He hesitated, and risked one very doubtful glance at his queen. She was dressed embarrassingly informal, clad in a heavy embroidered robe draped over what he could only assume was a sleeping garment of some kind, and her rich black hair hung in a single plait down her back. It would all have been alarmingly inappropriate, if the whole place hadn't been crawling with invisible bucket-wielding deckhands (and, presumably, invisible cats, as well).

His hesitation drew Susan to look up at him, and her face in that moment lacked hauteur or contrived merriment or indeed anything but simple curiosity. "Milord?" she prompted. "I would know what you thought to say."

"Well," said Peridan again, and thought that surely there were at least ten others on board far better suited to counselling the sovereign than he, "leaving aside the Prince for the moment, if your Majesty will permit me, has His Majesty . . . . pardoned you already?"

"He has offered me his forgiveness, yes," Susan nodded, "and though I have made an apology, as you yourself must know, I cannot help but feel I ought to make another. I have so alarmed him, after all . . . can one plea for pardon be quite sufficient? I feel I must make any number more."

"Then I cannot counsel you otherwise," Peridan decided, and felt that it was a very proper thing to say, which was why he couldn't understand why it didn't seem to soothe the queen. She didn't say anything, of course; she simply nodded and murmured her thanks and looked again out over the water, and Peridan thought, quite suddenly, that it was how his mother had looked when he was a small boy, and his father had followed every pardon granted them with endless reminders of where they had fallen short. It hadn't felt the least bit like a pardon at all, and now, remembering the awful knots he had always felt in his stomach, he found he couldn't, after all, leave it at that.

"If," he swallowed, "if your Majesty would pardon _me_–"

He more than half hoped she wouldn't, but Susan looked over again, and said "yes of course" so he could hardly stop there.

"With your Majesty's pardon, then . . . if my lady Queen sees fit to apologise twice to my lord King, then it is nobody's place but her own to commend her. But if you would forgive me, Madam, I find . . . I've found that one does well to remember that, once forgiven, it is no longer one's place to atone."

Susan stayed still a moment, and though she looked at him, Peridan felt she was not seeing him at all. Instead, although Peridan could not have known it, she was thinking very hard, both on what he said and on what things she had seen since she had been a small girl who found herself both queen of a land and sister to a brother who had been freed forever from the burden of having to atone. It was only when Peridan saw her smile –that smile that made it feel as though all his May mornings had come at once– that he knew even in his weariness and through his longing for home he had somehow managed to say the right thing.

"Of course you're quite right," she said, and there was such simple conviction in her words that it did not occur to Peridan that he could be otherwise. "And of course Edmund would know it better than any . . . how foolish of me." And the light on her face as she looked out over the water again buoyed Peridan most gratifyingly.

"I still won't wake him, though," she decided. "Not to ask about Prince Rabadash, anyhow . . . are you quite certain, milord, you cannot answer me? What think you of his . . . mindset when first he sees his plans come to naught?"

Peridan found that even Susan's smile could not help his feeling exceedingly uncomfortable at being asked to predict the actions of a tyrant, and he told her as much.

"I beg my lady's pardon," he said helplessly, "but I truly feel I do not know the man's nature well enough to say. I have seen of him nothing but that you yourself have seen– his flattery and fine manners in the court of King Peter, and his tyranny and oppression of his own people once he was again in his home."

"Then with this account of him in mind," Susan said quietly, "I charge you now to tell me: think you that such a man will tolerate the rejection of the woman he sought to win? Think you," and two very small spots of colour touched her face as she said this, "that he will forgive a refusal to his suit when such a refusal was scarcely couched in anything resembling diplomacy, or indeed courtesy?"

Peridan, now wondering what on earth such a refusal could have entailed, looked at Susan in frank curiosity and found that the answer to a question put like that wasn't so tricky after all.

"No tyrant," he decided, "could look kindly on any who escape the trap he has laid for them. Nor indeed do I believe it is within the nature of a tyrant to look forgivingly on those who may have . . . wounded his pride."

"Yes," Susan sighed, "yes, this is what I feared."

But stealing a look at his queen's face, Peridan found there was no fear there. Instead she seemed simply, quietly resolved about something. She watched the water a moment more, then seemed to recall that he was standing there. Looking over to him she smiled, and asked his pardon for keeping him so long.

"For surely," she smiled, "'tis one thing to wake and walk about of one's own accord, but 'tis quite another to be woken by a bucket and a deckhand, and possibly a cat, and kept talking by a person whose conversation you cannot refuse."

This was true, of course, since once can hardly tell one's queen that one is too tired to converse, but Peridan said no, that was quite all right, and he didn't mind in the least. Unfortunately the effect was somewhat spoilt by a very large yawn that interrupted him before he was quite done saying he wasn't tired in the least. Susan could not help but laugh at the sight, then begged his pardon for laughing, and kept one hand covering her smile even as her eyes danced, and she ordered him back to bed.

"And if I see any cats about," she concluded, "I shall warn them well away from your door."

Peridan said this was most gracious of her and bowed, walking backwards for half a dozen steps before Susan turned back to the railing and he was able to turn around again and start below, to his berth and the lovely bunk that awaited him there.

Susan, for her part, remained on deck some hours longer, watching as the moon descended behind the western shore and the sun burst upon the eastern horizon, scattering gold over the sea. It was, as every sunrise is, entirely new and different from all that have come before it, and Susan felt her heart warm at being able to watch it.

"If one thing can be made new each morning," she decided, "then it can surely be no great feat to think that I might be made new on one return home . . . oh, please," and her hands flexed nervously on the rail that ran about the side of the ship, "let it be so. For I do not think I could face what I fear I must, if I knew I was still what I was when I left."

O0O0O0O

**A.N.:** This chapter was particularly for Francienyc who wanted to see more of Peridan! I only trust he will forgive me for waking him to oblige her. Now, the next chapter it all gets very overlapping and tricky, and to write it I have to find the writing I did last summer, which means digging through boxes and stacks on stacks of papers, so I don't look forward to it in the least but thanks are owed to everyone who's told me that they do.

Up next: A Disrupted Reunion, wherein a restful arrival at home isn't, really, but everybody gets to meet up again anyway.


	21. A Disrupted Reunion

A Disrupted Reunion

O0O0O0O

Susan did not stay on the deck until everybody awoke to join her; while some of her pride may have left her, none of her propriety had gone with it. No sooner had the sun made its full appearance above the horizon than did the Queen slip below deck again to return to her cabin, take up the guttering little lamp by the door, and slip inside to see what could be done about dressing herself. By the time her ladies awoke she needed help only in seeing to her hair. The ladies had no difficulty with this, nor in fastening her circlet to the sensible coronet of braids they had fashioned at her instruction. The last pin was just being tucked in place as the cry went up from the deck above their heads.

"Land ho!"

The first member of the Envoy to reach the deck was the youngest. Prince Corin reached the rail even before King Edmund, and scrambled up to perch on it to get a better view. His eyes shone as the Narnian shores drew nearer, the glittering spires of Cair Paravel rising from the wooded peninsula on which she had been built, a pale and shining jewel set in finest Narnian green. Small wonder, then, that all who gathered to measure their approach could not help but feeling a little queer and homesick even as home itself approached.

"I suppose Lucy will be pleased to see us."

Edmund looked down in some surprise, for he had not heard Susan approach to stand at his side. Now he looked at her as she slipped one hand through the crook of his arm, her features as unreadable as she studied the castle.

"Yes," he said, once he had recovered his tongue, "yes, I suppose she will." He rested his hand just briefly on that of his sister. "And . . . how does my elder sister fare this morn?"

Edmund's elder sister had to tip her chin up to look him in the eye, but when she did, he saw that she was smiling.

"I find . . . I am found," she said simply, and it may have seemed a strange thing to say, but Edmund, who had also had occasion to see clouds part and the sun shine on him in such a way that he, too, had felt he was found after an interminable time of being so very, very lost, understood perfectly what she meant. A smile split his face in reply.

"I am mightily glad to hear it," he said, and brother and sister stood together on the deck, their weary Envoy gathered about them, watching with gratitude as home drew ever more nigh.

O0O0O0O

When the _Splendour Hyaline_ put into port, there were none immediately on hand to greet her. So early was it yet that only the fishermen had ventured abroad, and their boats were already bobbing far out beyond the cove that housed the Royal fleet. None of the company minded, though, for when people are tired and sore and more than a little in need of a bath, it's very tricky to welcome the idea of a whole lot of fuss being made. Susan, standing with Edmund and Corin as they waited the lowering of the gangplank, even went so far as to say that she was rather pleased they had returned so unexpectedly.

"I should," she confessed, "like little more than the chance to slip right into my quarters unnoticed, and sleep for a fortnight! For I fear," with a laughing, genial air that invited them to hear the mirth in what she said, "that it shall take me at least that long to recover from our misadventures."

Unfortunately, Susan's wish for a quiet entrance was not to be born out. Even as the King and Queen and Prince Corin descended the gangplank and led the party up the road to the castle, a cry from one of the ship's crew, echoing down to them from the crow's nest of the _Splendour Hyaline_ behind them, stopped them where they stood.

"Goodness," Susan, placing one hand on the little circlet she wore as a matter of form, craned her neck to better see what had occasioned the shout. "Edmund, whatever can he . . . can you make it out?"

Edmund, who had a height advantage on both his sister and their young charge, was doing his best to accomplish just that.

"I believe it's something coming down from the Land Road, though I can't quite make it out . . . a horse, possibly, judging by the speed of it . . . though I see no cloak or colour that suggests a rider."

"A Centaur?" Corin made as if to shin up the nearest tree to hand, but a firm look and light hand from Queen Susan stayed him in his tracks. "Or maybe a Talking Cat?"

"The build is not that of a Centaur, nor is the colour that of a– oho!" Edmund had made it out at last. "Why, 'tis a Stag!"

And so it was. They need not have taken Edmund's word for it, either, though all would have done so without question; the entire party had ample opportunity to see this for themselves as the magnificent animal finally veered off from the main road that connected Cair Paravel and its court to the mainland of Narnia, and began a thunderous approach toward the party that was by then more than halfway up the hill to the Cair.

"Why, surely 'tis Charon," said Drinian. "I heard a complaint from him only last spring that the Great Cats had overstepped themselves in their hunting; 'tis the very image of him, indeed."

"Nay," cried Peridan, whose lands abutted the part of the forest best favoured by the Talking Deer. "I would know that set of antlers anywhere. It's Charon's oldest, Chervy. What ho, Chervy!" as the animal drew to a breathtaking halt before their party, "come to greet your King and Queen, then?"

"Majesties," the beautiful creature panted, and dropped a very shaky bow by bending his off foreleg. "Majesties, your pardon for my haste, but I bring grave news."

"And you shall share it," Susan promised, "but first I must insist you rest yourself. You look quite exhausted, dear Chervy!"

And so he did; the poor Stag was trembling all over, his red tongue hanging out and his ribcage heaving beneath his gleaming coat as he struggled to catch the breath that his flight had stolen from him. At Susan's insistence he was given a moment's leave to recover, and provided with water poured from an uncorked flask into King Edmund's cupped hands. Lapping greedily at the tepid liquid, the Stag seemed to come into better possession of himself and his dignity, and drew back to hold his head erect once more.

"Now, then," Susan said, still smiling, "if you are feeling more yourself, Chervy, we should welcome your news."

Later, of course, she would wish she hadn't put it quite like that, but at the time, she really had no way of knowing any better. All stood still in horror as Chervy related the news he had been given.

"Rabadash of Calormen comes this way. Even now he crosses the desert to the pass at Anvard with his horsemen, ready to battle–"

"Horsemen?" it was Edmund, tone scarcely less sharp than his eyes. "How many are they?"

"They are two hundred strong, Sire," the Stag said, with a slight inclination of his head in the direction of the King. A gasp went up from the Envoy.

"Two hundred . . ." Susan paled, but though Corin was prepared to steady her, she did not sway. Instead she looked back to the Stag, with a sort of pinched, ready look about her. "Whence cometh this intelligence?" she demanded, and Chervy replied readily enough.

"From a little chap we came upon travelling with some woodland creatures. Had rather a look of strain about him, but– hullo, there," he seemed to see Corin for the first time. "Wasn't it you, then?"

And all the company assembled, who had been told on the crossing of Corin's double, realised who the little informant must have been.

"But mercy," Susan said, with a small start, "how can the little fellow have travelled such a distance in so short a time? Not on foot, surely. Not even a grown man could have made such a journey on foot."

"No indeed," Edmund said, and frowned. "I don't suppose there is any danger of his being instrumental in some manner of plot to lead us astray, is there? Abandon the castle to defend Anvard, and leave the Cair for the taking?"

"To come at the Cair from this side, they should have need of galleons," Susan pointed out quite sensibly. "And the port is full now, so they should be forced to moor in the cove and approach in small groups by boats; their numbers should be divided, and they would be easy prey for even a handful of archers. That is not a sound strategy of war, Brother, and well you know it."

Well Edmund did. He nodded to acknowledge the truth in what she said, and turned back to the Stag.

"Our thanks," he said solemnly, "foremost for your fealty, but thanks also for the speed at which you came to deliver this news. I see only too well what it has cost you." For indeed, the Stag did seem yet inclined to breathe rather fast, and to wobble a bit around the knees. "If there is aught at the castle that can afford you some comfort, you must take it with the thanks of your King and your Kingdom."

In reply the Stag bowed quite low, but said that he was quite all right, and wanted only to return to the forest, and see about finding a decent bit of grazing. Edmund smiled and said the Stag could help himself to all the grazing the King's forest could afford him, and the Envoy continued up the hill, a much more sombre party than they had been on arrival in the port.

"I had almost dared hope we were rid of him," Susan reproached herself as they continued their approach to the Cair. Edmund smiled, and shook his head.

"I daresay we were all indulging in such hopes," he reassured her. "I know for a fact that I was."

"So was I," Corin offered, and Susan smiled at them both.

"That means we are of a heart, at least," she observed, "though I fear it does not speak highly of our minds."

And none of them had realised what a grim cloud had stolen over them all until it lifted at that moment, just long enough that they might laugh.

O0O0O0O

When the Envoy reached Cair Paravel at last, they faced some extremely astonished guards. A horrified little Dwarf came rabbiting out from a small door in the wall to receive them all, babble apologies at their state of unpreparedness, and then turn to bawl a fearsome cry at the armed Centaurs and Fauns who lined the outermost walls of the Cair.

"Atten-SHON!" he hollered in a thunderous voice that belied his size, and all the guards at once snapped to even straighter postures than before. "PRE-sent ARMS!"

And all spears were extended at once.

"SA-al-UTE!"

And all spears were raised and a hundred voices thundered once as one in greeting to their King and Queen. Tired, weary and worried though they were, the whole party found it in them to smile at the sight.

"Majesties," the breathless Dwarf approached, then stopped and bowed, then finished approaching, "Majesties, a hundred pardons for this lapse, we had no idea! If we had known you were coming, we–"

"Peace!" Edmund was laughing in spite of himself and all that was looming around them. "Peace, my friend!"

"Yes, Narrik," Susan smiled as well, "don't please trouble yourself about it, or I shall never be easy in my mind at your distress. Our return was quite unplanned, and it is no wonder you should not have expected us."

Narrik did not look convinced by any stretch of the imagination, but at last he was prevailed upon to accept the apologies of his sovereigns and permit them to enter their home, where servants were told to make rooms and baths ready for all the Archenland guests, and to find rooms for the host of new Narnians that Queen Susan had brought back with her (for all the Calormene slaves had, in the end, determined they should accompany their mistress, and were now standing in the courtyard in their light Calormene shifts, looking rather chilly and not a little nervous, yet somehow still expectant of greatness. Susan's company seemed to have that effect on everyone).

"And you, Princeling, must take yourself away to wash," Susan chided Corin, "for you have a strong smell of tar about you, and though I should be loathe to accuse you of disobeying my orders, I greatly fear you may have somehow found a way of getting around them and aiding the ship's joiner in his work."

Corin did not confirm these suspicions, but neither did he deny them, and it must in all fairness be noted that he did not even put up a token protest, but allowed himself to be led away to be scrubbed. This left Susan to face Edmund, and shock him by smiling –_really_ smiling– as she took his hands in hers and spoke.

"Don't look so grim," she pleaded. "Dear Edmund, I know it seems dreadful, and yet . . . I cannot help but feel there is some scheme behind this. Not," quickly, "that of our sometime host, but a greater one. One whose designer," with a quick, light kiss above his beard, "we must trust above all else."

Then she dropped back, and offered him a pretty little apology and begged he would excuse her. "For you see," she twinkled, "I must go seek out my sister, and put her heart to rest. It will, I fear, take some considerable time, for I have not a doubt she will have much gloating to do!"

And Edmund watched her go, too relieved to have her back to bother saying he was certain Lucy, too, would be so grateful at knowing Susan was restored to them that gloating would be the very farthest thing from her mind.

O0O0O0O

Lucy, Susan knew, could be only one place at this time of day. The little Queen who shone like the sun made a habit of rising with it too, and with no siblings to shake awake, she would have gone riding directly before taking her breakfast and retreating to the courtyard at the heart of the castle that she and Susan used as their private sanctuary.

The courtyard was small, and could not have held even a hundred men, but this morning it held the only thing Susan wished to see. There, reclining on a stone bench beneath an apple tree, was her precious sister. Lucy's golden head was bent in close study over a book, and at her feet was a wooden bowl that held three apple cores. The younger Queen was shaded, for the most part, by the tree that towered over her, but for just a moment a passing breeze caught the branches, ruffling and parting them, so that a single beam of light struck the gold of her hair and the silver of her crown, and Susan felt her heart catch; she had so very nearly lost her.

She was not conscious of making any noise, and yet she must have done, for at that moment Lucy lifted her head from her book, and saw her older sister standing there. A look of incredulity flashed across her face and was chased off almost at once by a smile of pure, radiant joy.

"Susan!" she cried, and was off the bench and across the grass in a twinkling, the book flying from her hand to fall, forgotten, to the ground. "Susan, you're home!" And she caught the older Queen in a fierce hug, and twirled her around with a happy, choking sob. "Oh, Susan," this quieter, and somehow slightly anguished, "you are _home_."

Susan, feeling her throat constrict as Lucy's shoulders heaved, gently put her arms around the younger girl and held her.

"Yes, dear," she said simply, "yes. I am." And they stood together like that for just a moment, with the sun, and other things, warming them both. Then Lucy drew back, and though her eyes were bright they were not exceptionally damp as she smiled at her sister.

"But whyever have you come without sending any word? Had I known you were returning today, I should have tried to arrange something! It would not have been the sort of party you deserve, of course –you know that I can never manage those things nearly as well as you– but I should at least have liked to feast you properly!"

"Don't trouble yourself, Lucy, please," Susan smiled. "Really, the gladdest thing I can think of right now is to simply _be_ here! I am sure Edmund will want to see you as well, of course, but everybody else is getting washed after the journey . . . and I rather think I should, too."

"Yes, yes," Lucy said impatiently, "but you can do that later, can't you? Come," catching Susan's hand, and pulling her toward the bench, "sit with me! Tell me everything that has happened, won't you? I'm simply dying to know– you might have _written_, at least! Even _Peter_ has written me twice, now, yet from you and Edmund I haven't heard a word! Really, Susan," chidingly, though without rancour, "it was too bad of you!"

Susan, smiling, said she knew it, and promised that if Lucy did not understand her lapse by the end of her narration, then she would do whatever she could to make amends. And, with her wide-eyed audience seated before her, Susan explained all that had transpired since the Northern envoy first set foot in Calormen, leading up to their escape, the journey home and the unexpected news from Chervy the Stag. At the conclusion of the tale, Lucy sank back in shock, her eyes twice as wide as they had been when Susan had first begun.

"Oh, dear," she gasped. "And I had thought him only vain, but . . . why, Susan, he's perfectly evil, isn't he?! He's nearly a kidnapper! And you say he spoke of Edmund in such a way . . . he sounds a murderer, too!"

"I fear those are the least of his faults," Susan said quietly. "He is a most wretched tyrant, Lucy, and I truly fear for the people he will govern when the Tisroc dies. You were quite right in your assessment of him, and if you wish to scold me for not listening, I shall accept it as nothing less than my due."

But Lucy was sterling worth. She placed one little hand over Susan's, and smiled with impish brilliance.

"Of course I shan't scold you! Not unless you keep on looking so glum . . . Susan, darling, we are about to go to battle, and I am not the one to keep a cheery face at a time like this. I have tried so very hard to be like you these past few weeks, and keep solemn and obedient to all those Ministers . . . I have tried not to lose my temper, and I have tried so hard to be gentle, but it is beginning to tell. I believe I have wrinkles!" And Susan had to laugh at this dire claim. "And here you are, and you've had such a time, and yet you still look so calm about it. I am not fit for your place, darling, and I need you very badly to stand in it now. I have wanted so badly to be fierce, and now that you are home, I finally may again!"

"Yet," Susan had to point out, "to have kept your temper so long . . . and oh, Lucy, to not be cross with me, when all along you were right, and I ought never to have gone . . . truly," she caught her sister's hand in her own, "you are the sweetest and gentlest of sisters."

"And truly," Lucy's eyes danced, "you are the fiercest and bravest, if you have stood against such a monster as Rabadash, and still made it home."

"What a mixed-up pair we are!" Susan smiled, and for just one moment it was wonderful, because all was right between them. Then a forced little cough broke through their conversation, and both queens turned to see Prince Corin, well-scrubbed and freshly-clothed, standing in the doorway of the courtyard. Although he was too well-mannered to enter unbidden, he clearly wanted to do so. Lucy, her face alight with a new kind of joy, rose to her feet again and held out her hands with a little laugh.

"So here is our fiercest champion!" she announced, and Corin, his face suddenly writ over with blushes and smiles, came tearing across the courtyard, skidding to a halt just inches away from the younger Queen.

"Hullo, Queen Lucy," he panted, sketched a quick bow under Susan's watchful gaze, and then flew at Lucy, nearly knocking her over. Lucy, laughing, didn't seem to mind.

"You've grown!" she accused, and Corin, dropping back, looked down at himself as if seeking evidence of this change.

"Maybe," he said, and shuffled his feet a bit. "I dunno . . . did Queen Susan tell you?" he wondered. "About Rabadash?"

"She has told me, yes," Lucy said, a slight shadow passing over her sunny face. Then a teasing smile returned, and she said "I wonder that you did not run him through already!"

"I wanted to!" Corin protested, "I did, truly!"

"He did," Susan said, and what it cost her to swallow a smile we will never know, "truly."

"Then I am sorry," Lucy said solemnly, "for doubting you on that point. You will forgive me?"

"Of course," Corin said, wide-eyed and earnest. How, he wondered, could she have thought he would do anything but? Fortunately, the Queens doted on the boy far too much for them to do anything but smile at him as Lucy gravely thanked him for his pardon.

"And will you do me the honour," she added, "of helping with tonight's banquet? For," quickly, cutting off the protest she saw rising to Susan's lips, "if we are to lose half our court to the ravages of the battlefield tomorrow, I would not for the world have them poorly-fed the night before! Besides," and here she turned to extend a hand to her sister as well, "you are all home, and you are all safe. If that is not cause for the grandest of celebrations, then I do not know what is."

And Susan, seeing she would be overruled no matter what protests she might make, very wisely chose not to make any.

O0O0O0O

**A.N.:** Goodness, even_ I_ am surprised to hear from me! Quite suddenly and unexpectedly, I have moved. I've changed houses, cities and even provinces, and here I am, really wishing I weren't. But my sister is happy to have me, so I suppose that's something!

I'm afraid my internet took an unpleasantly long time to be connected, and unpacking took an even longer time, but searching for the writing I did last summer will take longest of all, because it seems to have been completely left behind in storage. My lofty goals of getting everything typed and done in a matter of weeks are dashed, and I am writing from scratch again. I will still try to keep updates as regular as possible, and thank you all so very much for your patience as well as your feedback. It's more of an encouragement than ever, now!

Up next: Councils of War, wherein plans are made by Kings and Queens alike, and Rabadash schemes to steal back what he has lost.


	22. Councils of War

Councils of War

O0O0O0O

Although Susan resolved to make no further protests concerning Lucy's plan for a grand feast, she did beg off the honour of taking part in the preparations.

"I should be but poor help to you," she explained. "I really have need of nothing so much as a bath and little rest, but without them . . ." and she made a helpless little gesture. Lucy pretended affront.

"Very well," she sniffed, "Corin and I will arrange it without you, then!" But even her feigned indignation could not conceal the affection with which she watched her sister retreat to her chamber, in search of the luxuries she had mentioned.

Corin would ordinarily have fought tooth and nail at the very mention of preparations for a banquet, as he had precious little patience for such things at the best of times, and even less so with banquets so close to the time of battle. Yet this time he only stood quietly and watched Susan leave, then looked to Lucy beside him. "She bathes an awful lot," he said dubiously, and Lucy had to laugh.

"She may, and she may not. I only know that I am quite certain if _I_ had spent three weeks in the company of a man such as Prince Rabadash, I should want to scrub myself well over too."

Corin, who had spent almost as much time glowering at Rabadash as Susan had spent in the man's company, said he guessed there might be something in that.

"However," Lucy smiled at her friend, "I am not so cruel as to actually force you to arrange a party. I know there must be other diversions that would better amuse. Would you not rather go to the stables or the jousting-yard, or some such place, and see what mischief you can contrive? Would you not rather find your pony, and see if we have spoilt him enough in your absence? I fear he is getting quite fat, you know," and for a moment both of them smiled at the confession. "Would you not rather," very kindly, "find some form of entertainment that does _not_ require you to trail about after me, arranging for food and musicians for tonight?"

Corin would, indeed, much rather something of the sort, but he had been far too fond of Lucy and far too much a gentleman to say so aloud. Now the look of relief that broke across his face drew another laugh from the Queen, which sound was welcome to them both.

"Very well, that is more than answer enough," she decided. "Be gone with you, then, before I change my mind and set you to selecting the dessert course!" And Corin vanished so quickly that had you not been looking right at him, you might not even have seen him go.

Lucy, left to arrange things to her own satisfaction, was quick to do so. While she had freely and rightly confessed that she was not on par with Susan when arranging great feasts, ordinary banquets were well within her capabilities and she fell on the task with a merry vengeance. Cooks and cleaners who might otherwise have resented the sudden change in plans were not given the chance to grumble; their Queen came upon them like a laughing whirlwind and swept them all into the spirit of the celebration before they even thought to complain.

"For they are home," she would explain countless times that day, as Edmund sat in council, Corin took his pony into the forest and Susan sank into the welcoming embrace of her own bed, "and they are well, and I would not for the world pass up the chance to show my pleasure at it."

So Lucy was as merry as only Lucy could be, and as the banquet came into shape under her direction, Edmund ventured down from the council chambers in search of food for his weary courtiers. Lucy met him at the door to the kitchen with a brilliant smile, a fierce hug and a smut of flour on her nose that was all too soon transferred to her brother's doublet.

"Edmund!" she cried, and the King found himself nearly bowled over under the force of her greeting.

"Lucy," he laughed, and regained his balance with an effort. Catching her about the waist, he swung her out and around in a circle before setting her gently on her feet and smiling on her transparent delight. "By the Lion, if I had known I had such a greeting in store for me, I would have packed the whole Envoy up and brought them home our first week in Calormen."

Lucy giggled, but sobered a moment later. "Thank you," she said, her light little voice suddenly solemn and quiet, "_thank you_ for bringing her home." And she flung her arms around him again, and clung as if she would never let go. A lesser man might have been embarrassed by the exchange, but Narnian men aren't like that. Edmund simply held her close and petted her golden hair, and said, a little huskily, that he would be sorry to think she had ever doubted he would.

"But here, now," he set her back from him, and looked into the bustling kitchen, "what's all this? I came to see about a platter of something for our poor council, and here I find you readying to feast the whole kingdom!"

"It's not nearly so much as that!" Lucy laughed, leading Edmund into the mêlée. "It's just a banquet for tonight; nothing much. We shall be quite fit to fight tomorrow. Don't worry," she added quickly, seeing that Edmund was about to speak, "it won't be anything unseemly, just a little celebration for the inner court. We're at war, after all; I've not forgot, I promise you." And it was a funny thing, but she touched his arm and smiled so sweetly that it was only now that Edmund fully realised what a defeat in Calormen would have cost him. Catching his little sister about the shoulders, he gave her a quick, fierce hug of his own.

"If you think I was about to reproach you, dear, then you could not know me half so well as I thought. I know you will do nothing unfit. It was not in my head to scold you, only to ask if something could be found in the way of food for the council; they're terribly hungry, and though they have determined to put on a brave face about it, supper is a long way off yet."

Lucy, blushing and contrite, begged his pardon for having thought so wrong of him, and at once arranged to have three large platters readied, one with fruit, one with meat, and the other with several cheeses. Four loaves of hot, crusty bread were produced from the oven and wrapped in linen cloths, and several jugs were filled with the sort of light, sweet summer wine for which Narnia is famous. All of it was sent up at once to the council room and the men who waited there, leaving Edmund to kiss his sister on both cheeks, to the audible delight and amusement of the kitchen workers, and thank the population of the room for their efforts.

"I cannot wait," he assured them, "to taste of your labours tonight." Then he was gone from the room, leaving Lucy to return to her efforts with doubled vigour.

O0O0O0O

The courtiers in the council chambers had, as Edmund said, been struggling to put a brave face on, but even so the appearance of quantities of good, fresh food and drink went a long way toward reviving flagging spirits. When Edmund returned to the chamber he found everybody in much greater cheer than he had left them, and he was only too happy to rejoin their number and the discussion.

Talk resumed a serious flavour, of course, for none could discount the magnitude of the threat posed by Rabadash and his men, but there is something about sustenance that makes such discussions far more palatable. Already steps had been taken to procure fresh and ready horses for the following morning, and two courtiers had been charged with rallying ready men and creatures for the fight.

As talks continued and the food was made short work of, taking the edge off everybody's hunger, Edmund struggled to push aside the nagging feeling that he should be thinking of something particular. Surely, he thought, somebody had said something to him that had disconcerted him . . .

"Think you, Sire, that your new mount is up to the task before us?" Lord Kerron's question cut into Edmund's reverie, forcing him to focus on the matter at hand.

"I could not say," he said truthfully, "but I can tell you this will not be the occasion that determines it. My charger is not as aged as my brother's Cyclamen, and may still be counted on to give a good showing in any battle. Moreover, it is sheer folly to take an unproven mount into any conflict; I may be as foolish as the next man, but you will never find me handling my horses imprudently. Ram stays here."

"And yet," Lord Mertin observed, tapping one blunt forefinger on the table, "I fear the news from your head groom is grim as regards the likelihood of supplying all men with the horses needed in such a battle. Every charger we can lay hands on will prove of some value."

"Perhaps the Talking Horses . . ?" Peridan ventured, and Drinian seconded him.

"Indeed. No loyal Narnian would begrudge the King his services in an extremity such as this."

"Then you, friend, must head the envoy to confer with them," Edmund decided. "Can you reach the Eastern Herd in good time to explain matters well?" Drinian said he could, and took his leave of them at once.

I won't bore you with details of all that was discussed in the council chambers that day. Unless you are a military strategist and familiar with the martial customs of Narnia, Archenland and the lands around them, I doubt very much that it would interest you anyway. Suffice to say that preparations and decisions were made under a great deal of strain, and that while more than one temper was lost that day, all the men were far too aware of what was at stake to lower themselves to such a petty thing as squabbling amongst their own number.

Those who had been despatched to assorted tasks returned at assorted times, each bearing news of success. The Eastern Herd Drinian approached had agreed to provide from amongst their number stallions and mares fit for battle, and another foray down to the stable determined that there would be sufficient mounts for knights and nobles, provided some knights were noble enough to consent to ride steeds less dashing than those to which they were accustomed.

"We are mounted, then," Edmund said, sitting back with a little sigh. "And unless I mistake it, that was the last of it, save . . . Jardin? Provisions?"

"Queen Lucy has assured me that all is readied," the nobleman said, "so it would seem, Majesty, that you are right; we are as readied as we can make us." And a good deal of hand-shaking and shoulder-clapping was indulged in by all, but Edmund sat apart from it, for he had only just now realised what thought had been pressing on his mind that he had been previously unable to name.

"By the Lion," he growled, jumping up and starting for the door, "she said _we_."

O0O0O0O

"Of course I'm going with you!" Lucy looked little more than irritated, but Edmund was fuming. Brother and sister stood in the banquet hall while Lucy oversaw the arrangement of the tables. "Yes, a little closer together– we will be few in number tonight, and I don't want it to seem empty . . . what," turning back to Edmund, a spark of incredulity colouring both her tone and expression, "did you think I should let you ride out to face him alone? The man who so insulted my sister?"

"Alone– Lucy, men and beasts all told, we will be past a hundred in number!"

"And Rabadash, as you have heard, is two hundred in number, beasts excepted. I should think you might be grateful for all the assistance I might offer."

"'Tis not a question of _gratitude_, little sister, but rather of _prudence_."

"Then surely you must see as well as I that I must– oh, no, _no_, Buffin! That's _quite_ the wrong way!" and she went rushing over to help the erring Dwarf correct his placement of the High King's chair. "It will be empty, I know, but it_ must_ be drawn to the table, the same as the rest. It's a sign of respect."

"Whoever told you that?" Edmund asked, his frustration momentarily eclipsed by his curiosity. Lucy was not any sort of expert in the fine points of courtly etiquette yet here she was, lecturing on just that. She looked up from the re-positioned chair, one golden tendril escaping an already untidy knot to tumble into her face.

"Susan did," she said, and Edmund saw for the first time how flushed and breathless she was. "I had to consult her on several things, actually. I do hate to worry her, especially with such petty things as etiquette for a banquet, and this _is_ meant to be a time for her to rest, but _you_ know how I am with this sort of thing– I'm simply hopeless." She gave Peter's empty chair a rueful smile, then bit her lip, and touched the beautiful carving that graced the tall, oak back. "Do you think . . . he'll be home soon, won't he?" She looked up at Edmund, her cheeks pink and hair straggling from the force of her efforts, and to her brother she suddenly looked very small and alone. Edmund, his throat tightening, nodded just once.

"We all wish it so, Lucy," he said, since he didn't trust himself to say anything else. Most of the workers had vacated the room, the placement of the tables and chairs now complete. King and Queen were left quite alone, save the presence of a very quiet Talking Mouse, whose job it was to scrounge the floors and make sure that no crumbs had been left behind since the last banquet. Holding out his hand to his sister, Edmund drew her close.

"I would not for the world see you hurt," he tried to explain. "Rabadash is not a man of honour. Though some of those beneath him may observe the protocols, Rabadash will not fight according to any codes or laws we would hold sacred. He would burst upon us and lay our land to ruin, ash and chaos, then retreat and claim victory. The thought that you might be placed in a position to be wounded by such a man . . . Surely you must see why I cannot countenance that."

"I can see it no better than I can see why you had to let Susan go to Calormen in the first place," Lucy retorted, and Edmund flinched. Releasing her, he looked down and gave his answer in a very low voice indeed.

"I gave Peter my word."

"Then give _me_ your word," Lucy challenged. "Give me your word you will protect me from the insanity of being forced to do what I simply cannot! Look on me and understand, Edmund; I am not the sort of pleasant, ornamental creature content to sit at home and make things _pretty_. I am doing _this_," gesturing angrily around her, "because you will let me do no other. I do this because I have nothing else that I _can_ do. I do this to keep from going _mad_. And here at last, after waiting at home and doing nothing _but_ what I am ill-equipped to do, comes a chance to do what I can. And you!" a note of hysteria crept into her voice. "You must play the protector now that it is _not_ needed, though you would not do it before, when it _was_, and you forbid me to do the one thing of which I am capable!"

Exactly how poor Edmund felt at hearing this impassioned speech I am not quite sure. I do know that he went very white, and got very pinched around his mouth. His hands seemed to tremble just a bit before he clenched them to make them stop, and it seemed to Lucy, at least, that it took him a very long time indeed before he could muster an answer. When he did, he spoke in tones of such measured control that there could be no mistaking the emotion that was boiling underneath, though he would not for the world have let it show.

"Forgive me, Madam," he said politely. "I had no idea. Naturally if all that stands between you and madness is the pleasure of wielding a weapon against Rabadash, it would ill-become a loving brother to keep you from it. It seems that I am no fit protector for anyone." And he sounded so very remote and formal, and so very unlike her own Edmund, that Lucy's tender heart could not bear it. At once she rushed forward to grapple her brother in a fierce hug, and wept on his neck all the three weeks' fears that had seized her and built up to that point.

"I am sorry," she sobbed, "I am so very sorry, I didn't mean it, of course you are right to protect us; of course you are right to forbid it if you feel you must. Edmund, darling, do please look at me; I _am_ sorry!" And he knew she was, though he looked at her anyway, and forced himself to see it in her face. Then he kissed the poor, wet little cheeks, patted her hair and even, from somewhere, mustered a very brave little smile to put on for her sake.

"Of course you meant it, dear, but you were right. And I was boorish to answer you so; forgive me?"

Naturally Lucy did, but she still looked very sniffly and damp about it, and Edmund felt bound to offer her his handkerchief before he went on with what he had been about to say.

"And of course," he patted her hand a little clumsily, but with great affection, "you must join the archers. No," quickly, seeing she was about to declaim the honour for which she had just wept, "I am not making the offer out of pity or guilt, or anything like. I am making it because you are right; we have need of every good archer we can lay hands on, and you are better than many. I would esteem it an honour to know you fought with us, and I was a perfect idiot to think otherwise."

"Well," Lucy said feebly, snuffling into the handkerchief, "not a _perfect _idiot, surely," and Edmund had to laugh outright at that.

"Call it misplaced protective instinct," he urged her. "As you say, I could not keep Susan from doing what I knew would harm her, and so here I am, trying to keep you from doing what you must. I really _am_;" as if the thought amused him, "I am the most perfect idiot."

"Well," said Lucy, "you may be. You may not. I don't know. I only know," and she flung her arms about his neck once more, this time with a fervour born of sheer relief, "that you are my brother, and you have been brought back to me, and though you may blush to hear it," for indeed Edmund's cheeks seemed to be warming under the glow of his little sister's forthright confession, "that is more gift to me than a thousand chances to fight for Narnia could ever be."

It is perhaps well that Edmund was saved the embarrassment of having to find a fitting reply; as he fumbled to think of something suitable to say, they were interrupted by the arrival of Susan, neatly gowned and discreetly coiffed, with a rather scruffy-looking, hay-strewn Prince Corin held firmly in hand.

"Lucy!" Susan glared, "Lucy, did you tell Corin he might ride his pony?"

"Well," Lucy blinked, sucking on her cheeks to keep from smiling at the sight of the squirming little fellow, "well, I may have done . . ." and then, because she was a truthful young lady, she corrected her own tactful admission. "Yes. Yes, I did."

"He's filthy!" Susan cried, and turned such a look of determination on the Prince that Corin drew back a little bit, in preparation for flight should the Queen demand he bathe a second time that day. He needn't have worried; Lucy was laughing and apologising, and insisting that Susan cast all blame on her, not Corin, and Edmund seemed to be biting his lip to keep a smile from his face. Finally Susan, too, relented and smiled, for with his missing tooth and purple eye, a bit of dust was really the least of Corin's problems.

"Very well," the older Queen sighed, "I know when I am beaten. But faith!" with a firm tap, "art a vexing playmate to keep track of." And Corin made a very impish apology, and scrambled round to the head table to ask which seat might be his.

Presently they were joined by several hungry courtiers, and shortly thereafter by many worried-looking ladies, all of them wives, sisters, sweethearts or daughters of those who fought for King Peter, or of those who would go with Edmund and Lucy on the morrow. It was for the sake of these ladies that Susan had urged Lucy to temper the gaiety with which she fêted the Envoy, suggesting that the musicians restrict themselves to such songs as could fade into the background with propriety, and that none of the food should be too rich or grand.

"For if they must suffer such an agony of the heart," Susan had pointed out, as she helped Lucy select the menu, "it would be the cruellest sort of disrespect to ask that they see us blithe and gay, with so few cares as to make merry and take good food and song even as their own dear ones may lie wounded, or worse."

Lucy had said well _that_ was a cheery way to take it, and Susan, sensible of the irony in her sister's voice, had said did Lucy want her help or not? And Lucy, who had wanted Susan's help very much, had apologised, and now they all dined on good, simple food, and listened to polite, unobtrusive music, and somehow managed to make a party of it all the same.

O0O0O0O

At the banquet's end the court dispersed to their chambers, but the Queens asked Edmund and Corin if they would consent to sit privately and speak for some little time in a manner less guarded than they had dared to do in weeks. King and Prince, though just as weary as the Queens, found they could not refuse and went with the ladies to their private sitting room. Low couches waited to welcome them, drawn up to an inviting little fire built to ward off the evening chill, and all seated themselves thereon with sighs of relief.

Although the counsel they kept that night was brief, it was no less the merry for it. Edmund regaled them with tales of what had transpired when he met with the Tarkaans, and Corin was asked to tell once more the story of his own adventures when exploring Tashbaan. The Prince tried to gloss over some parts, but Lucy soon detected the omissions and had the full truth out of him. Susan, who had not heard the story in its entirety before, grew rather pink on doing so.

"Faith, little Highness," she said, petting Corin's hair in a manner that he would not have suffered any other person in the world to attempt, "gratified though I am to hear that my honour is in such capable hands as yours, it worries me that you would fly so readily to defend it."

"Don't be so hard on the boy, Susan," Edmund protested. "I daresay I'd have done the same, if I heard a fellow speak of you that way."

"No you would not," Lucy laughed. "You would have challenged him first because you are a knight and a gentleman. As for me," she added, "I am neither, and _I _should have done the same as Corin." Corin, who knew this to be true, smiled with some satisfaction and even permitted Lucy to lead him to his own little room not far down the hall from that of both Queens, and see him settled in his bed.

"I'm glad you're coming with us tomorrow," he offered, and Lucy dimpled in reply.

"As am I," she said, turning down the lamp by his bed to a dull, orange glow. "But you must sleep now, little Champion, because the war is not won yet."

"Not yet," Corin agreed, unable to stifle a rather monstrous yawn, "but we'll win it all the same. I'm sure of it."

"Your faith is surely a credit to us all," Lucy murmured, but Corin shook his head.

"Not really. I only know we're going to win because I don't see how Rabadash ever could. He's dreadful, you know," he added, with all the candour of tactless youth. "He's not fit to be prince of anything. You should see what it's like there, Queen Lucy, it's just horrid. The city has those wretched slums I told you about, the ones I walked through . . . they're full of rats, and the children are all small and skinny and they look so scared of everything, and none of the women are supposed to talk to men they don't know. Isn't that silly?"

Lucy murmured that silly it might be, but more than that, it seemed to her, it was just terribly sad. Corin readily agreed that it was this, too.

"He beats his slaves, too," he mused, "and he killed a horse right in front of us. I thought Queen Susan was going to be sick at that, but I suppose ladies don't do such things. She got very white and still, but she didn't say anything to him. Nobody ever does, you know. All the people there are scared of him. They talk slaves' and fools' talk. They say 'to hear is to obey' but that's a lot of bosh, isn't it? To hear is just to hear. You only obey if you want to, not because you're told."

"There speaks a little freeman," Lucy said softly, patting the scraped knuckles of the boy's little hand, "and there speaks a boy who will one day be a king for freemen to honour. But Rabadash does not govern freemen, Corin, and I am afraid that men who fight in fear of their leader may have an extra desperation that we, who bow to good and gentle Kings, cannot fully understand."

"Maybe," said Corin, and sounded so utterly unconvinced that Lucy had to stand and turn her back very quickly to stifle a laugh, "but all the same. I just don't see how he can expect to win. He's just so _awful_."

"It is fortunate for his Highness that he is unfamiliar with this sort of arrogance," Lucy decided, and with one quick tug, set the counterpane straight. Then she wished the Prince a sound sleep and slipped quietly from the room, leaving him wrapped in contemplation of what sort of arrogance it was that could persuade a man such as Rabadash that one such as Queen Susan could ever be his.

O0O0O0O

Corin might well have wondered, but had he known what conversation had transpired between Rabadash and one of his most loyal Tarkaans shortly before departure, he would have wondered no longer.

Shortly after taking his leave of the Tisroc, and shortly before he went to rally his two hundred horsemen, Rabadash had drawn aside one of the men who served him, a vile and evil little man whose heart and mind were nearly as dark and twisted as those of his Prince.

"My father, may-he-live-forever," Rabadash explained in a dreadful low, silken voice, "has seen fit to grant me entry to Archenland and Narnia from the desert that divides us, but hear me well, O friend of my youth, for I am ill content to enter the kingdoms on such paltry odds, and would have another stratagem in place."

"I listen, O Prince," the friend murmured, "that I might hear, and obey."

"Then hear this, O my friend, for I would entrust no other with such a duty. It is my wish that you should this very night take with you fifty of your most trusted men, and board the swiftest galley the Imperial Port can afford you. Order the crew to make ready at once, and journey to the mouth of the harbour at Cair Paravel. Shelter there in secret, and attack the Cair at dawn. I do not doubt I shall lose men in our assault on the castle of King Lune, so it is imperative that the Narnian defence be weakened in advance of my arrival."

"To hear is to obey, O Prince," the wretched man vowed, and scraped the sort of bow that is reserved only for royalty. Rabadash nodded impatiently, and made a dismissive gesture at the man.

"Go, then, and know how you shall suffer for it, should you fail in what I have directed." Then the Prince stood, looking quite wicked while the grovelling man continued to bow and back up until he reached the end of the corridor. Then he turned and vanished from sight, leaving Rabadash to stand alone, and I am quite certain that if Susan of Narnia could have seen his face at that moment, the only question in her mind would have been what it was about the man that ever compelled her to show him such favour in the first place.

O0O0O0O

**A.N.:** As you can see it's all getting spliced and awkward, some of it canon and some of it not, but am I ever having a lot of fun! Thanks so much to everybody who has taken the time to tell me that they are, too.

Up next: On the Morrow, wherein we shall see journeys to battle.


	23. On the Morrow

On the Morrow

O0O0O0O

It was, Lucy thought, a rather sad thing that the morn of a battle was the only occasion on which she could be certain of company when she rose. Waking shortly after sunrise, she found over half the castle was rising as well; normally only castle staff were stirring when she dressed, but this morning courtiers, warriors and all number and manner of Beasts were about. Even Susan had risen in advance of her usual hour, and on entering their sitting room Lucy found her sister had already sent down for breakfast. Corin was there too, tucking into a stack of toast smeared with butter and honey and getting very sticky about the face, but he made a garbled effort at a greeting when Lucy walked in.

"Good morning to you too," Lucy twinkled, seating herself beside the Prince, "I see you are fit for battle." For Corin was wearing his blue tunic with the golden lily of Archenland, such as all the knights of his father's kingdom wore over their hauberks. "Are you looking forward to it?"

"Oh, yes," Corin nodded. "Very much!"

"Well, don't eat too much," Lucy cautioned, accepting a cup of tea from her sister. "You know riding is a terrible business when it's done on a full stomach. Susan, has Edmund said yet when we are to move out?"

"On the hour, I believe." Susan set the teapot down, and fiddled with her napkin a moment. "Lucy, dear, though you may not want to hear it . . ."

"Oh, Susan," Lucy made a face, "don't tell me I mayn't go! That would be just too bad of you!"

"No, no, of course not," Susan said quickly. "I am hardly the person to advise you on imprudent voyages, after all." And both sisters made very small smiles at this attempt at humour. "I want only to tell you to be careful. I know you mayn't wish to hear it, but you are not fighting a good man. Edmund, I am sure, would sell his life dearly to keep you safe, but you must admit you do make such a sacrifice difficult if you will insist on rushing headlong into danger!"

"Very well," Lucy had to smile as she drank the last of her tea, "I promise you that I will make every effort to see to it that Edmund is not compelled to sacrifice himself on my account. Will that satisfy you?"

It didn't, exactly, but Susan knew it was as much a comfort as she was likely to receive, so she smiled graciously and said she supposed it would. For such is the diplomacy of queens.

O0O0O0O

The war party that gathered in the courtyard was not a merry one, nor yet were they grim. They merely had the look of those who know what they are about, and are determined to see a thing through.

"You _will_ be careful?" Susan wanted to know, and Edmund smiled and gripped her hand and promised he would. He had to let go quickly, however, in order to address Lucy's anger at learning they meant to have her ride Cyclamen, Peter's old charger, on the grounds that Aravir had not yet been proven in battle.

"Not yet proven!" she cried. "Indeed, I have shot from her back these past three weeks until I feel better fitted to my bow when I am with her than when not. What task would I ask of her that could better be met by this poor old creature," gesturing at the large stallion, "so well past his prime? I need no charger, Edmund; I need only a mount I might trust with my life, should the worst come to pass. Cyclamen is and always shall be Peter's horse; he will heed no other."

"He will heed you, and well you know it," Edmund insisted, and Lucy made a dreadful face. Both of them knew that Cyclamen was too well-trained to deny obedience to a rider; they also knew the aging charger had a soft spot for Lucy, who had doted on him from the moment of their meeting and later had given him his name (Peter had feigned horror at a battle-charger named for a flower, but could hardly deny that it was fitting, seeing as the animal had broken free and consumed every plant of that variety in the palace gardens before re-capture). Yet it was also true that Lucy dearly loved her new mare, and to be denied the chance to take her into the battle that faced them seemed a cruel blow indeed.

"I will be nowhere near the worst of the fighting," she persisted, "and come down it, Aravir could bear me to safety far more swiftly than this dear old thing." Here she petted the neck of the massive charger, to show him that her refusal was not of a personal nature, and Cyclamen lipped at the Queen's sleeve, seeming to forgive her. On this point, however, Edmund was not to be swayed.

"If you are to ride with our company, Lucy, I would have you on a mount I can trust to keep you from imprudence. You will sit him, or none."

The decree had Lucy pulling a fearsome face indeed, but when Edmund used that tone of voice, there was to be no arguing with him. So Lucy relented, and even made a handsome apology to Peter's horse, who did not understand her words but graciously accepted the handful of violets she had pulled from the garden beds to use as a peace offering.

By now, all those assembled were armouring themselves. Susan helped Corin on with his hauberk and settled the blue tunic over top before the Prince mounted his pony, a lordly little creature that pulled at a mouthful of grass and ignored the boy's attempts at remonstrance.

"Be safe," Susan urged, and Lucy spared her a very jingly, awkward sort of hug (Susan's hair got woefully tangled in the steel links, and it all got very unpleasant and rather painful before she finally managed to extricate herself) before clucking briskly to Cyclamen, and accepting the older Queen's offer of a hand-up in reaching the stirrup (war-horses, you see, are dreadfully tall, and Lucy was not).

"We shall be the very safest," she promised, and though Susan doubted it, she saw no purpose in saying so. Instead she watched as Peridan unfurled the Narnian banner –the magnificent red lion passant on a green field– and held it aloft. Then, with a sharp, clear blast on the trumpet, the entire party started forward, moving across the courtyard, through the gates and down the Land Road, to the mainland and Archenland, and everything that awaited them there.

O0O0O0O

Although marching to war might seem a very serious thing, you must not think that everybody in the Narnian party was grim and silent the entire time. Indeed, between them they managed to be something very close to cheerful, if only to bolster their spirits and ready them to face what lay ahead. Corin took it upon himself to challenge several people to races (Edmund put a stop to that quite quickly, but even through his lecture one could see he was amused, so Corin wasn't daunted in the least) and there's nothing like travelling two-abreast to facilitate conversation, so what with one thing and another they kept quite cheery as they completed the first leg of the journey. It was only on reaching the section of the forest near the border between Narnia and Archenland that the war party began to hush, and as a low, late-morning fog crept round them, Edmund began to sound the horn every now and then just to make sure that everyone who might cross their path wouldn't be trampled by the oncoming horses.

"It's terribly gloomy, isn't it?" Lucy said, not seeming to mind in the least. Corin's pony rode between Cyclamen and Edmund's own charger, Irra, and the little prince turned his head to look up at the Queen beside him.

"It will probably burn off soon," he offered, and Lucy agreed that it surely must. Indeed, they had hardly travelled another hundred yards before the sun began to filter through the fog, and when the last grasping tendrils of mist had parted they found they were arrayed in a clearing large enough to accommodate them all. A small Dwarfish cottage had been built on the flattest part of the land, but there was still ample room around it to accommodate the army.

The Dwarfs who owned the cottage had already emerged, and at the sight of the Narnian lion on Peridan's banner they immediately began bowing in great earnest. If you have ever seen a Dwarf bow you will know why many in the company had to work so hard to keep a straight face, because Dwarfs have so little height to begin with that when they bow at the waist you think for a moment the earth is surely about to swallow them up. Edmund smiled on them as he drew Irra to a halt, and addressed the company over his shoulder.

"Now, friends! Time for a halt and a morsel!" he decided, and everyone was only too happy to hear this. At once they began to dismount and stretch a bit, for riding can make a person stiff at the best of times, but when you are wearing heavy mail or plate armour, it's even worse.

"We're well overdue for a bite, I think," Edmund observed, swinging down from Irra's back, and Lucy, whose stomach had begun to prick at her just a bit, said yes, she rather thought so. Everyone around them was already busy moving about, stretching, talking and fishing parcels of food from haversacks, so it was no wonder that Lucy did not immediately notice Corin had slipped away. It was only when Edmund spoke, with some surprise, asking him who his friend was, that Lucy looked over to see the Archenland prince dragging with him a very scruffy, dirty little fellow clad in the very meanest sort of garments.

"Don't you see, Sire?" Corin asked, and looked so proud of his find that Lucy at once looked closer at the browned, rather grubby face of the child before them. "It's my double: the boy you mistook me for at Tashbaan."

Had anybody not seen it before, he would have now; the fair hair, the clear blue eyes and the familiar grimace as the stranger made apologetic attempts to wrest his arm free of the Prince's grip. Lucy found she had to laugh at the sight.

"Why, so he is your double," she smiled. "As like as two twins." Or would be, she guessed, once the newcomer had been given a proper scrub and fresh clothing– and oh, dear, wasn't that a very Susanish thing of her to think? But she couldn't worry about that now, as the stranger was looking very awkward and self-conscious, and she didn't want him to think he was being judged for having the effrontery to share faces with a prince. "This is a marvellous thing," she decided, smiling, but it was clear the poor little fellow didn't feel nearly as certain about that as she did, and addressed Edmund with a kind of touching desperation.

"Please, your Majesty," he stammered, "I was no traitor, really I wasn't. And I couldn't help hearing your plans. But I'd never have dreamed of telling them to your enemies." And the poor boy looked so wretched that it was all Lucy could do to not take him in her arms at once. Of course, Lucy knew that most people don't appreciate strangers giving them hugs, so instead she simply smiled in encouragement as Edmund laid a hand on the boy's head and reassured him that he knew this well. Then hunger overtook them, and they settled down with Peridan, Mertin, two Dwarfs and a very ponderous Giant to take their food.

Corin was finished eating long before everyone else, and, making his excuses, rushed off in search of something exciting to do. Edmund looked a trifle uneasy at this, but Lucy said surely the Prince would only seek out his new friend to learn how it had fared for him since last they parted, and Edmund said perhaps she was right. They then turned the conversation to the battle ahead, and I am afraid they thought no more of Corin until they were nearly done their food, when a sudden, horrible shout had humans, Beasts and all manner of creatures on their feet in a trice (the Giant very nearly trod on a Dwarf in his haste to rise), half-expecting to see a horde of Calormenes thundering down upon them.

As it turned out, it was not quite as dire as that, but it was still very bad indeed. Thornbut, the Dwarf Edmund had charged to keep special watch over Corin, lay on the hillside, twisting and grimacing and clutching an ankle that had already begun to swell. The King and Queen made their way quickly through the ranks of the army, and as Lucy knelt to probe the wounded limb Edmund turned on Corin with the sort of dreadful temper he displayed only when confronted with truly thoughtless persons.

"What has passed here?" he demanded, and there was such a terrible thunder behind his words that even Corin turned quite pale at the sound of it.

"I told him I wanted to fight," he said, his voice suddenly very small, "and he said you said I mayn't! But of course I will, won't I? I mean, what's the point in–"

"Corin," Edmund's voice brooked no argument. "To the point with it."

"Yes, Sir," Corin nodded. "He said I mayn't fight, and I said I would. Then he wanted my word I'd keep back with him, or he'd bind me. And I said– I said I'd like to see him try, so . . ." he looked down at Thornbut. "He tried."

"It's a sprain, Edmund," Lucy said quietly, having completed her examination of the ankle. "A very bad one; he'll have to be left here. I daren't see him moved." She turned to a hovering group of Fauns, and beckoned them forward. "Here, now; we'll need to have him out of this armour. It won't do for him to be wearing it if the ankle keeps swelling at this rate."

So as the Fauns set about helping the Dwarf out of his trappings, Edmund, still quite white around the mouth and very angry indeed, set about berating Corin. I am afraid that his fears for his kingdom and his family, as well as his concern for the Dwarf and his anger at Corin's hot-headedness, may have added a sharper edge to his scolding than was his wont, for he finished his lecture with a sort of cry of desperation and an exasperated shake of his fist.

"By the Lion's Mane, prince, this is too much! Will your Highness never be better? You are more of a heart's-scald than our whole army together! I'd as lief have a regiment of hornets in my command as you."

For Edmund it was a very strong dressing-down indeed, and as the Fauns took the armour off to a safe spot near a tree, Lucy thought she had better draw some attention before Corin started to take the scolding too much to heart.

"If I had but my cordial with me," she frowned, "I could soon mend this." She knelt to check the ankle again, and sure enough it was continuing to balloon in a most horrific fashion. "But the High King has so strictly charged me not to carry it commonly to the wars and to keep it only for great extremities!" And for far from the first time, she thought that Peter's foresight might have done them more harm than good, though she would not have said as much to anybody for the world.

Edmund, given this chance to catch his breath, saw that Corin looked very pale and solemn but was still standing before him with shoulders squared and chin held high, looking as much like a little General as anybody ever could. The King felt the worst of his anger lessen at the sight, and put a paternal hand on the Prince's shoulder, gesturing at the injured Dwarf and fussing Queen as he did.

"See what your Highness has done," he said gravely. "Deprived us of a proved warrior on the very edge of battle."

Corin, very wisely choosing not to ask how Thornbut could have been any use as a warrior if he had been meant to serve as nursemaid, instead offered to take the Dwarf's place in the battle. Edmund, I am afraid, scoffed at the suggestion, but when he saw how his 'pshaw' had hurt the boy's feelings, his face and voice softened still further, and he placed his other hand on Corin's other shoulder so as to be sure the Prince was looking him directly in the eye as he spoke.

"No one doubts your courage," he said gently, "but a boy in battle is a danger only to his own side."

It was, in its own way, a decent apology, and Corin saw it for what it was. He was about to accept it as such, too, but at that moment a Leopard called Edmund away, so he never got to hear Corin say it was all right, he quite understood. In a way this was a very dreadful thing, because Corin had been about to make amends by vowing he would do as Edmund asked and keep well back from the fight, but instead he was left alone, quite free from a binding promise, with poor Thornbut's armour lying there so temptingly under the tree beside his pony . . .

Corin was not a boy to let such an opportunity pass him by. Eyes dancing, face alight, he rushed off in search of the fellow who shared his face. After all, what boy in his right mind would pass up such a wonderful chance to be in a battle?

O0O0O0O

"Coming home?" Edmund stared at the Leopard in consternation. "But– he sent no word. Why should they be coming home now? Have they won, then?"

"Nay, Sire," the Leopard shook his head. "This company from the North comes home not in victory, nor even in full numbers, but rather only to bear home the wounded, and to rally fresh troops for the campaign."

"Then Peter won't be with them." Edmund passed a hand over his face. This running a kingdom business was tough going. How could he focus on the matter at hand with such news hanging over him? "You say the Raven is still here?"

"Yes, Majesty. He is by the cottage, greatly wearied; it was good fortune indeed that he should have sighted our party from above, for I am not at all easy in my mind that he could have reached the Cair. He made the journey in two days' time, which I do not believe has ever been done before. The High King was truly anxious that all should be ready to receive the wounded on their arrival."

"And when are we to look for them?"

"Tomorrow morning, I believe. Does your Majesty wish to speak with him? He is sorely winded, but I believe he yet has some speech in him."

"Aye," Edmund had to smile at this, "for 'twould hardly be a Raven did he not."

"Indeed, Sire," the Leopard agreed, and a very faint smile found its way onto that solemn, whiskered face as well. "Then you will speak with him?"

Edmund hesitated a moment, then shook his head. "Leave him rest. I cannot think but that he would have shared all crucial news with you directly, and I would not for the world disturb he who has made such a journey. I will have his name, though; he must be recognised for this."

And with the Leopard's promise that he should learn it, the King went away to confer with his sister, and see that all were in readiness to move out.

O0O0O0O

With so many away at war, Susan found that Cair Paravel was a very empty place indeed. There were even fewer in residence than when Lucy had been left to it, and that morning Susan found that whenever she walked into a room, whatever the room, it was empty more often than not.

"Goodness, how gloomy," she mused, having just entered the throne room and found she was the only person there. "I don't believe I like this." And she went down to the stables, where she was at least confident of having Gillikin to talk to.

Sure enough, the head groom was in residence, scolding a stable hand for not seeing to the mucking-out to Gillikin's own, exacting standards. Susan watched the exchange with some interest, for Gillikin, though often gruff, was hardly ever cross, and this was a rare sight indeed. When at last he finished and turned around, and saw that his Queen had been standing there for who knew how long, he turned quite purple and begged her pardon with such earnestness that Susan tried to look as solemn about it as he seemed to expect her to be.

"Why, of course," she said at last, when the good fellow paused for breath, "I quite understand how busy you must be. You've just depleted most of the stables to battle, after all! How many mounts are left to us?" Her manner was so easy that Gillikin soon forgot his consternation, and joined her in walking the aisles between the stalls. There were, he explained, twenty-eight horses left behind; five were mares still nursing foals, five were, of course, the foals themselves, and eight were trained only to draw a carriage. Two were too old for battle, and were kept to train the younger knights in jousting and mounted combat, and the remaining three were, naturally, the Southern horses given them by Rabadash.

"They are looking well," Susan smiled, stopping before the stalls reserved for the Royal mounts. "I think . . . I think I should like very much to ride." On hearing this Gillikin at once fetched the Queen's saddle personally, and Susan, watching him approach, noted it was not the saddle she had used when last she rode.

"No, indeed, Majesty," Gillikin's chest puffed out as he walked into the stall and, through a feat of acrobatics Susan didn't quite catch, got both saddle and blanket settled quite neatly in the proper position. "The other saddle didn't fit quite right, you see, and I took the liberty of askin' her Majesty, as is the Queen Lucy, if we might see our way to having proper saddles made. They's got uncommon small backs, you see, and it seemed only fitting as the Queens' horses –and the King Edmund's too, naturally– should have saddles as was –well– fittin'."

"I see," Susan smiled, watching as Gillikin's tough little hands became suddenly gentle, coaxing Alambil to take the bit before he fitted the bridle over her ears. "Then I must thank you on her behalf; she looks even lovelier than I remember. And indeed," as the Dwarf led the dainty mare forth, "she seems even sweeter, too." For Alambil, oddly enough, seemed to remember and recognise the lady who had rode her but once. She put her pretty nose forward, and Susan was forced to open her hands show her she had brought no treat of any sort.

"Later," she promised, then followed Gillikin and Alambil into the stable yard and over to the mounting block, where Susan quickly got herself up and into place.

"Will you not take an escort, your Majesty?" Gillikin asked, and Susan, in reply, asked who there was left to serve in that position. Realising that the Queen was right, that all able-bodied men and Beasts whose services were not desperately needed at the castle had already ridden either North or South, the head groom simply entreated his sovereign to have a care. Susan promised she would.

"I shan't go far," she assured him, and with a touch of her knee she turned the mare to the path that led from the stable yard, into the King's forest. Alambil responded with exquisite precision, and it seemed no time at all had passed until they were well away from the castle, leaving Susan to reflect, with some amusement, that at least now there was a reason for her to feel alone. It's strange how these things work, though; no sooner had Susan put the castle out of sight behind her and settled back to enjoy her mount's light, floating trot, than did she at last begin to feel that she was in good company.

"You really are a wonder," she told Alambil, who didn't understand the words but seemed to enjoy the voice. "If nothing else comes of this wretched business but that I can call you my own, I am well satisfied." And she laid a hand on the lovely, arcing neck, marvelling that a gait so smooth was even possible in a horse.

Susan didn't head deep into the wood the way the four usually did when riding together. Instead she chose a track that curved off the main path and followed the river back to the castle. It was a lovely ride and a favourite of hers, made all the more delightful for the privacy she enjoyed as they travelled. The only sounds around her were the trill of birdsong, the squeak and jingle of her mare's tack, and the muffled thud of hoof beats. The cool breeze borne in off the river beside her carried the mingled scents of wood and water, the moist, earthy fragrance of the forest and the clear, cool smell of the river telling Susan, as nothing else had yet done, that she was at last truly home. Nothing smells quite as wild or as wonderful as a river through the woods, and Narnian rivers and woods are wilder than most. There was no mistaking them for anything like she had seen or smelled in Calormen, and indeed, I don't doubt that the ride would have put the Queen in a finer mood than she had been in for a very long time, had it not been for the sight that met her eyes as she topped the last hill before the castle.

The view from that hill is possibly the best view Narnia has to offer, so it's a pity so few get to see it. The path cuts down sharply, and there is a small break in the foliage at just the right height for a person on a smallish horse to see through. The hills below are dotted with trees and small, cosy cottages, and they slope all the way down to the Eastern Sea. There's an excellent view of the cove as well, and it was at the cove that Susan looked now. She meant only to see how pretty the sun looked, reflecting off the water in the midmorning, so it was a rude surprise indeed that she should instead have seen a galleon fashioned along Calormene lines making its way around the point. It was, quite unmistakeably, a ship of war.

"Oh, no . . ." For just one second, Susan felt as if everything around her must drop away entirely, leaving her to fall into oblivion. Instead, Alambil swung her head round and administered a hard nip to the Queen's foot; it was not enough to injure, but more than enough to make Susan jump and recall herself. "Yes," she said, and was quite herself again, "yes, of course." Then, with hands so steady she hardly dared believe they were her own, she loosed the reins, gave Alambil her head and drummed her heels against the mare's sides, driving her hard down the hill, across the open field and in through the high gates of the Cair. And it was, I believe, a credit to Susan and Alambil both that the whole way back, they seemed to scarcely touch the ground.

O0O0O0O

**A.N.:** And so it begins! Thank you so much to everybody who offered feedback on the previous chapter. It was lovely to hear all expressions of opinion, and I'm glad nobody seems to mind too terribly much that I am adding such a lot to a plot that was perfectly lovely when Lewis wrote it in the first place.

Up next: Attack on the Cair, wherein an attempt is made to take the castle, and an author takes –if it is possible– still more liberties with her text.


	24. Attack on the Cair

Attack on the Cair

O0O0O0O

When Susan reached the stable yard and drew Alambil to a standstill, she was trembling almost as badly as her horse. Her approach had not gone unnoticed; Southern horses may ride smoothly, but they do not ride quietly, and by the time the Queen had dismounted the entire stable had turned out to greet her.

"Majesty!" Gillikin hurried forward to relieve Susan of the reins, "Your Majesty, what's wrong?" For one look at Susan's face was enough to tell everyone that something was very wrong indeed.

"A ship," she gasped, "a Calormene ship of war. It crosses the cove, making directly for the harbour." A cry of alarm went up from all assembled, but Susan was now past alarm. Face set, she addressed Gillikin. "Have somebody else see to Alambil; I am placing you in charge of barricading the forest gate. See to it directly." Then, gathering her skirts in hand and starting for the castle at a run, she called over her shoulder, "I do not believe we have the luxury of time."

Minutes later a dreadful, sonorous clanging rang out from the topmost reaches of the Cair. The brass bells rung only in gravest emergencies sounded, warning all inhabitants of the village below that they must expect attack. Not five minutes later people began pouring from the little houses, wives and children of all the fisherman still out on the sea rushing up the hill toward the safety of the Cair.

"I do not _care _what prudence dictates," Susan stood before Narrik and the grizzled old Centaur who served beneath him as Captain of the Guard. "I will _not_ have the drawbridge raised before all who seek shelter have obtained it, do you hear? It will be on your heads if you fail in what I have said."

Neither Narrik nor the Centaur looked pleased with Susan's orders, but when the Queen looked at a person that particular way, there was no room for argument. Satisfied, she hurried back into the castle where the staff had turned out in full force to await orders. Susan's were remarkably brief.

"We," she said calmly, "will shortly find ourselves under attack." She paused, as if expecting a reaction, but none came. Everyone simply stood in the throne room, facing their Queen where she stood on the dais. Emboldened, Susan squared her shoulders and went on.

"I do not expect," she encompassed all of them in an even gaze, "that this will be easy. I do not even expect that we will be victorious, though I hope it may be so. I expect only that all present will do their part by their kingdom and their home; it is nobody's place to ask any more of you than that."

It was not, perhaps, the fiercest speech Susan ever made but it was undoubtedly her most magnificent, and nobody who heard her that day would ever forget it. She was not what you might call an impressive figure, scratched and stained as she was from her ride through the woods and her wild dash back to the castle, but there was something in her face that made her, in that moment, more a ruler than all those who rely on threats and histrionics to inspire allegiance. Those listening could hardly help but see it, and as one, they reacted; cooks and valets, maids and aging courtiers alike, all stood a little straighter and held their chins a little higher at Susan's words. Though none of them said it, she saw it in their faces all the same: they would stand and fight. She couldn't have asked for more.

O0O0O0O

"Everyone who came up the hill is safely inside the Cair, your Majesty," the Captain of the Guard announced. "The drawbridge is up, and the gate in place."

"Thank you, Rolin," Susan spared the grey-bearded Centaur a smile. "Where have you put them all?"

"Most of the ladies are in the cellars, Majesty, and those with small children have been removed to the keep, but some insist on doing what they can to help."

"Naturally," Susan nodded, and pressed a restless hand to her brow to still it, and focus her thoughts. "Let them join the maids on the battlements, then. The fires have been stoked to boil water and pitch, so we will be glad of people on hand to fetch it, as well as to pour it over the side when the time comes."

"Very good, your Majesty," Rolin nodded, and looked about to speak. Susan, seeing this, raised one eyebrow ever-so-slightly in polite enquiry.

"Captain?"

"Majesty," Rolin picked his footing awkwardly, "forgive me, but will you not consent to remove yourself to the keep? None of us are easy to think of you so near the point of attack."

"Then I can only ask your forgiveness for causing you such distress," Susan returned coolly. "I cannot consider removing myself while so many people are prepared to sell themselves so dearly."

"Majesty," Rolin said unhappily, and bowed his head. He had not obtained the rank he held for nothing; years of experience told him what they faced now, and the idea of Queen Susan facing it with them made him feel more than a little ill. But already her Majesty was moving off, interrogating those who stood armed and at the ready in the courtyard –valets and kitchen staff, mostly, and what little the army had left them in the way of a Guard– hearing their replies and speaking words of encouragement before instructing them to fall in under Captain Rolin.

Watching her, and seeing the way a few words from her seemed to calm even the most nervous men and Beasts, Rolin was both startled and proud to realise his concern for the Queen's safety was equalled only by his admiration for her.

O0O0O0O

"That's right, Gwennie, like that," the head housekeeper approved, watching the maid take her position on the parapet. "You, Jinn and Lutie, here, will tip that vat, and– oh, your Majesty," with a brisk, deferential nod, "forgive me, I didn't see-"

"Don't be silly, Mrs Clogg," Susan smiled, "you mustn't mind me in the least; you're doing something far more important here. I only came to see if there was anything I might do to help."

"To–" poor little Mrs Clogg looked thunderstruck. "Majesty, hadn't you better–"

"What," Susan said wryly, "hide myself away in the keep with children and infants, and wait for it all to be over? It seems to be the popular opinion, but I assure you, I will do nothing of the kind. Now, what can I do to help prepare?"

Mrs Clogg looked like she might greatly prefer it if the stones beneath her feet were to open and swallow her whole. That option failing to present itself, though, she said if it pleased the Queen to help, they were with her all the way.

"Will your Majesty join the archers?" she wondered, indicating the small assortment of men and beasts farther along the parapet. Susan nodded.

"Yes, as soon as our attackers are within firing range. But in the meantime, are you sure there is nothing I can do to be of service?"

"Well," Mrs Clogg said dubiously, "I don't know if it's been pointed out to you or not, but the only flag flying right now is Queen Lucy's. There's not been time to change it, you see, and while it's by no means the most important thing, perhaps it . . . it might do for these scoundrels to know who's fighting against them."

"Of course," Susan nodded quickly, "I should be honoured."

"Then you'll need the key to the tower," Mrs Clogg decided, fishing at the bunch tied to her waist. "It's the wee brass one." She passed the heavy keyring to Susan. "And your Majesty," as Susan made to run for the castle tower, where the gears for the flagpoles were kept, "if you'll pardon me . . . the honour is ours."

With all the ladies lining the battlement added their nods and smiles to this statement, it was little wonder that, as she hurried along the parapet walk and let herself into the tower room, Susan's eyes were so damp. Brushing fiercely at them with one hand, she bent her efforts to lowering Lucy's snapping pennant, with the dagger and the cordial emblazoned on it, and raising instead her own, featuring her ivory horn. With it she raised the red lion of Narnia, such as they displayed in times of battle, and for one, fleeting second she passed her hand over the silks of her sister and two brothers, her scraped fingers making an odd contrast to the sun-faded colours of their kingdom.

"You promised me," she whispered, addressing the air around her and the sweet Presence with which it hummed. "You promised that this was according to what you had set down. In this, in all things, I choose to trust you. Please," fiercely, fighting tears, "no matter what happens today, do not let me forget that."

Anchoring the wooden peg that would lock the flags in place, Susan took just a moment to draw strength from the promise inherent in the power of the wind that lifted them. "In this," she repeated softly, "and in all things."

Then, with a softer set to her jaw and a harder glint in her eye, Susan of Narnia left the tower room, took up her bow and quiver, and took her place in the line of archers that graced the wall of the Cair. For a moment all stood in silence, and then they heard it, the warning cry from the courtyard below.

"They come!"

O0O0O0O

They came far faster than Susan had imagined they might. The road up from the cove was terribly steep, and she always got rather winded when she climbed it. Yet these men came as if fear had given them wings, racing through the town, knocking in the odd door but clearly more intent on the prize within the Cair.

It was a grim sight, and nobody could have been blamed for feeling a little feeble at seeing it; doubtless many would have, had it not been for Susan's horn. They had agreed it seemed a fitting thing, somehow, that she should sound it as the attackers neared; whether it really would fetch outside help, or whether it would only embolden them all in the fight for their survival, nobody cared to question. The important thing at the moment seemed to be to sound it, and Susan did.

It was, perhaps, a touch anticlimactic, if one had been expecting the skies to open and warriors to rain down, but the clear, sweet note seemed to do them all a little good, if only because they stood that much straighter as a result.

"Steady now," the elderly Faun in charge of the archers cautioned, as all nocked their arrows, "not until they're in range. Shields will be up quicker than you could credit it. We only have one shot at this." So for what seemed a near-interminable time, all was still. The ivory horn and the red lion fluttered above the Cair, and all along the parapets stood the oddest defence the castle had yet seen. The drawbridge had been raised, but the Calormenes had come with several broad planks between them, and made woefully short work of crossing the moat. Susan, watching them, drew one deep, quiet breath, flexed her fingers and, in unison with the other archers, raised her bow. The Calormenes were but two hundred yards from the portcullis when the Faun's quiet command was heard.

"Draw." All bow-hands tensed; strings flexed, and were drawn back level with each archer's anchor point. The only sound came from the fearsome shouts and clanging on the road below. Then, "Loose!"

Susan, sighting along her arrow, picked out a particularly large fellow near the outside of the ranks thundering toward them. He held his shield improperly, and looked dangerously capable of wielding a battering-ram, so he seemed an ideal choice. On the command, she let her arrow fly and, without checking to see that it had met its target –she always hated watching them fall– her hand flew back to grasp another. Nock, draw, sight and release. It was a terrible, brutally silent way of doing a thing, and she didn't care for it at all, but as long as she didn't have to see the arrow land, it was bearable, if only just.

It didn't last long; even as the second volley of arrows found their targets, the Calormene leader gave the order to raise shields, so few arrows were effective after that. But the archers held rank, and continued to fire until most of the attackers found their way to the portcullis. They held a battering-ram between them, and had a few ladders they had brought from their ship. Arrows were of precious little use at such an angle, so of one accord the archers shouldered their bows and moved down the parapet, where they helped to steady the vats of foul-smelling pitch and boiling water wielded by the maids and village women.

"Hold, ladies!" Mrs Clogg cautioned, standing by the older Faun who had now taken up the task of gauging the approach of the attackers. "We want them well up the ladders first." So they suffered through two deep, dreadful shudders as the battering ram slammed the gate, shaking the stones under their feet. By then the ladders had been raised, and several fierce-looking men were on their way up. Only then did Mrs Clogg signal to the women standing ready with the pitch.

"Now!" she said tersely, and they poured. I will not describe to you the dreadful screams they heard on emptying the contents of the vats onto those scaling the wall, but they made Susan tremble, and several others quickly shut their eyes.

"Change up," Mrs Clogg ordered, her leathery face inscrutable. Four empty vats were drawn back, and several women bore these to the tower and down the stairs. Those who held vats of boiling water got into position, looking even more solemn than they had moments before. The Faun watched the next set begin to climb, then nodded, so Mrs Clogg gave the word, and down went the water.

This happened once more before they were out of water, and the women who had carried off the empty vats returned with large rocks and coarse bags loaded with lead filings and rough pebbles. The archers took these as Mrs Clogg herded the women along the parapet, into the tower and down to the cellars where most of the village women were already secreted. Susan, for her part, remained with the archers, holding one of the smaller bags and feeling decidedly ill.

"Steady," the Faun cautioned, "hold steady . . . _now_!" and their makeshift weapons were loosed, knocking a few men from their ladders but not having nearly as devastating an effect as the pitch and water had done. Appraising the sight below them, the Faun made a grim observation.

"They have realised they will not batter the portcullis in time; they're focusing their efforts on climbing, instead. They will be on us soon. Your Majesty," tersely, "forgive me, but I must insist." Without further ceremony he took Susan by the arm, and pulled her back from her place at the battlements. "Gorig, Lutis, look to her Majesty. You are to remove her to the keep directly, and are there to remain until . . . she has no further need of you."

Susan did not protest this handling, nor did she beg them to at least permit her to see to the ladies in the cellars. The cellars were not as defended as the keep, and had been given to the villagers only due to a lack of space afforded by the latter. The keep was reserved for those with babes and little ones, that they would not be so readily required to fight back, and it was to the keep that Gorig, a Dryad gardener, and Lutis, a Faun so young he was still beardless, took her now.

Once inside, the Queen at once descended to the ground floor, where she found several frightened young women clutching infants or sheltering small children at their skirts. At the sight of them, Susan forgot for a moment the battle outside and focused instead on the people who faced her. It wasn't difficult; almost as soon as she entered, several of the children, little boys and girls still in long curls and skirts but just out of their leading strings, tumbled over one another in their eagerness to reach her, their eyes alight as they recognised the lovely lady who often rode into the village to join their summer festivals and winter merriment.

"Queen Thuthan!" one of the tiniest declared, and Susan had to laugh through the fear that still bit at her chest. Resting one scraped hand on the tangled curls, she agreed with the little boy that she was, indeed, Queen Thuthan.

"Are you doing well?" she wondered. Strange, she thought, how children made it easy to smile even at a time such as this. Little faces in varying states of cleanliness were lifted to regard her, their simple expectation of protection hurting her almost as much as it helped. Their faith that she could provide such protection was astonishing, as was the revelation that followed the sight of it. _This, _she realised, _is how I must be, if I trust that all of this is according to plan. If Aslan has designed it . . . why should I not be as faithful as these?_

So with renewed strength she met their smiles with one of her own, and heard their complaints with all the gravity that her younger brother heard those of their fathers. Little Elys's brother had pulled her ear until it hurt her badly (a kiss soon put this well to rights), Burtin's mother had scolded him for touching a pretty painted thing (the tapestry he indicated was none the worse for wear, and Susan assured him that she was not angry, though of course he must mind his Mama always) and roly-poly Warris was apparently suffering from hunger pangs.

"Well," Susan decided, "we surely can't have that!" She stood at once, and asked two of the women with older children if they would help her fetch food up from the storerooms in the cellar of the keep. They agreed readily, and in short order a small meal of sorts had been produced. The children fell to the salted meat, hard bread and weak wine with surprising glee, likely not so much due to the appeal of the food itself but rather more to the sheer volume of it.

Having no appetite herself, Susan walked over to one of the arrow loops set in the northern wall and peered through. The view was a limited one, but it gave her a nice glimpse of the King's forest, and she felt a remote sort of wonder as she realised it was through that very forest that she had so recently ridden, rejoicing in her homecoming. She wondered what Alambil must make of this commotion, whatever could be heard of it in the stables. She wondered also what the enterprising Gillikin had found to use in his reinforcement of the forest gate; knowing Gillikin, a few iron bars would not have sufficed.

It was as Susan lost herself in these reflections that the children and their mothers finished their odd, makeshift meal and were in the midst of clearing away the remains when they realised that the sounds of fighting outside the keep had changed. No more was the clanking of Calormene armour faint and remote, and no more were the shouts restricted to the area of the battlements; instead, it was clear that much shouting and clanging was happening right in the courtyard, just beyond the heavy, iron doors on the ground floor of the keep. It was only when the sound of a battering ram thudded against those doors, however, that the children began to shriek and cry, and Susan turned very white indeed.

"Your Majesty," Gorig and Lutis were at her side faster than she could have credited it, "your Majesty, we must remove you–"

"Remove me?" Even through cold terror, Susan felt the urge to laugh. "I am quite removed already, I fear." She passed an eye over the frightened huddle of women and children, and came to a decision. "Your first concern," she told her would-be defenders, "is to remove these good people to the cellar. Have them barricade themselves in with whatever they can lay hands on; barrels, bricks and foodstuffs, and whatever else can be found. I would not for the world draw fire on them by remaining in their midst." She then cast about, settling on the narrow, spiralling staircase that led to the first and second storey, and thence to the topmost storey and the door that opened onto the battlements. "I will be quite safe," she assured them, indicating the route of retreat she meant to take. "I will wait at the bottom for five minutes before starting for the parapet. If you are not back by then I will go alone, and you are excused all responsibility for my fate. I assure you," at seeing their horror, "I will think no less of you if you cannot reach me in time. As I say, your first concern is the welfare of these people."

Though they may not have liked it, Gorig and Lutis hadn't any choice. Susan was clearly not to be swayed, and they hadn't the nerve to follow the example of the older Faun and actually lay hands on her. Instead they fairly flew to obey her, shepherding the frightened village women and children down the stairs cut into the stone, leading into the cellar. As the sound of frantic barricading in the cellar filled the upper room, Susan retreated to the stairs to wait.

O0O0O0O

Those five minutes were among the longest of Susan's life. The shouting beyond the doors was now dreadfully near, and every blow of the battering ram echoed in her head and chest like thunder. She thought, very distantly, of Peter, Edmund and Lucy, and wondered what they were doing; if they, too, were fighting at this moment, and if their chances were as bleak as her own now seemed. She wondered if she would ever see them again. It seemed quite possible she would not, and she wondered why she felt no fear at this thought; why it did not alarm her as she thought it should. She had no time to wonder anything else, because just as the five minutes were up, Gorig and Lutis returned from the cellar, the battering ram struck the old iron doors a fatal blow, and Susan leaped to her feet, ashen but ready. Slipping her bow from her shoulder, she drew one of the few remaining arrows from her quiver, nocked it, and took aim at the falling doors.

Normally, of course, it takes longer than five minutes to batter down an iron door with just a tree trunk, but the iron in that door had seen a hundred years of winter, and was no longer as stout as it once had been. It gave way under the barrage with a terrible groaning and sonorous boom, the weakened hinges creaking, pulling and collapsing under the strain, leaving the whole barrier to topple inwards, slamming to the floor in a dreadful shower of stone and rust.

Through the rising dust Susan faintly espied Gorig and Lutis rushing to challenge the first of the fighters, and beyond them she saw the horrid clash taking place in the courtyard. The voices were mostly a series of unintelligible shouts, but a few voices rose above the rest in words she could make out.

"Hold them!" seemed the most oft-repeated directive, followed by a Calormene phrase that I cannot bring myself to repeat, as it was quite foul. One person did shout someone's name, though whether in despair or support she couldn't make out, and very, very far away she thought she heard a sudden cry of "Narnia! Narnia and the Lion!" but it was almost immediately eclipsed by a distant crash and the much closer shout of "There! The Queen!" At hearing this, Susan loosed the arrow she had aimed and, without waiting to see who it hit, took to her heels, racing up the stairs two at a time.

The whole ordeal after the door fell had taken barely twenty seconds, and yet it had seemed an eternity; now that she was moving, time was itself again and she was flying, rushing, scrambling upward. One leather slipper caught in the hem of her gown and she tripped, dashing her knee against a step. The dull pain cleared her head better than any amount of panic could have done, forcing her to focus on her ascent. She reached the door to the first storey but pressed on, reaching and passing the second storey as well. The third storey was her goal; that, and the door there, leading onto the parapet. She heard the rush of pursuit behind her, but it was as though it came from a distant lifetime; the only thing real right now was that room at the top of the stairs, where she took precious moments to slam the door behind her and drop the single oak bar in place across it. Then nothing else mattered but her hands, so small and bruised, struggling to draw back the mighty oak and iron bars set in place on the inside of the tower door.

"Oh, Susan, honestly," she hissed, tugging desperately, trying to shift them to the side (lifting them was entirely out of the question; they were far too heavy for that). "If you can't get this right . . ." But with a deep, shuddering squeal the iron bar gave at last, inching back just far enough to drop from one bracket. The oak bar was almost free when she heard the footsteps –far fewer footsteps than she had expected– passing the second storey and climbing to the third, where the climbers began a dreadful assault on the barricaded door. Then the oak bar was back, one end thudding to the floor, and with every ounce of strength left within her, Susan hauled back on the handle, her poor shoulders screaming as she braced her feet and slowly, agonisingly, inched the door back, fighting the resistance offered by the two bars now braced against the flagstones.

As the Calormenes breached the inner door, the oak beam splintering under their axes, Susan managed to drag back the door to the parapet just enough to clear an opening barely wider than she. Panting, sobbing and squirming with all her might, she shrugged free of her quiver and bow, ducked her head and pressed herself to the gap, forcing her way through. She heard the door crack behind her, and felt a hand close briefly, terrifyingly, around her foot. One fierce kick and she was free, leaving her slipper behind. Struggling to stand, the trembling Queen felt the cool hand of an afternoon breeze kiss her face; she realised her cheek was scraped when a few beads of perspiration reached the cut, making it sting. From below her came the confused sounds of fighting, and again that shout– "Narnia! Narnia and the Lion!" and it seemed much closer, yet still so very far away.

Winded, wearied and suddenly shaking all over, Susan took a few steps forward, then realised she had nowhere else to go. Running into a tower would only take her back downstairs to the courtyard, where matters were hardly safer than they were now. The door behind her would be opened in a matter of minutes, since even one of the men could have dealt with the iron and oak bars more effectively than she, and soon, she knew, they would be on her. Then, of course, all fighting would cease at once, because . . . and Susan felt her stomach heave, because the thought of being the price of Narnian surrender was well-nigh intolerable.

"Is this it, then?" she asked, "Is this what you had planned?" And her voice was the only thing about her that held steady. After bearing up for so long, little used as she was to this sort of exertion, it was small wonder that Susan was fit to collapse. Every part of her felt quite wrung out, and she knew, then, that there was no more flight left in her anyhow, even had she wanted to risk the courtyard after all. So she stood there instead, and heard, from a great distance, somebody in the courtyard shout that the Queen was on the parapet. She wondered if she ought to look down, but decided she had better not. Instead, she watched the door, and it may have been one minute that passed or it may have been an hour; Susan couldn't tell. She only knew that as she watched, the door was breached, and three Calormenes –just three– stood on the other side, and saw her.

They saw her as she was, too; she could tell by their sneering triumph that they saw on her face the evidence of her complete exhaustion. They knew as well as she that they might take her by the hand and lead her from the castle, and she would go with them, meekly and without resistance, simply because there was nothing left in her for the fight. Small wonder, then, that they were in no hurry to rush toward her; small wonder, then, that they were taken so by surprise when a fourth figure joined them in the tower room, a very disreputable-looking figure indeed with blood on his mail, rips in his tunic and dirt on his face, who flourished his sword and, without ceremony, ran the nearest fellow right through.

This spurred her attackers into action; the foremost sprang forward, laying hands on Susan, dragging her around and pulling her roughly before him so as to keep her between himself and the new threat. The Calormene between them and the door did his best, waving a scimitar and shouting in what he doubtless thought was a fearsome manner, but the newcomer had no time for posturing. Face set, jaw hard, he made short work of this threat too, so the only thing that remained between him and the Calormene who held Susan was, in fact, Susan herself.

"You will stay back!" Susan's captor warned, and from somewhere on his person produced what was either a short sword or long dagger –Susan couldn't really make it out– and pressed the tip to the underside of her chin. "She will die if you do not. You will lay down your weapon and you will stand back!"

Susan thought she had never seen anything so startling as the blank, empty look on the face of the man in front of her. His clear blue eyes hardening to chips of ice, his jaw somehow stronger than she remembered it, he lowered the sword, but only enough to slip his hand under the belt of his tunic. He clutched at something she couldn't quite see; clutched, and drew it out, as the blade at her throat pricked her just a trifle, sending her to the tips of her toes with a gasp.

"You will stand down!" the Calormene shrieked, and at that moment Susan saw what it was that the other man held– a beautiful, deadly dagger, the gleaming steel blade curved so it would cut up when thrown. She felt her heart still.

"The devil I will," Peter growled, and he threw it.

The fellow who held Susan stiffened horribly; he may have thought to scream, but he didn't think it fast enough, for he made no sound as he fell. The blade he held dropped from nerveless fingers, clattering to the flagstones, and suddenly she stood alone, heart beating once more as she faced her unexpected rescuer.

"For pity's sake, Su," her brother said plaintively, "can't I leave you lot alone for a moment?" Then his knees gave way, and he would certainly have fallen had not Susan flown to catch him. With strength she thought she'd lost, she lowered him gently to the ground and patted his cheek in a very sisterly, scolding fashion.

"Can't you ever stop playing the hero?" she countered. Then her fingers found the scarlet-stained bandages under his hauberk, and her stomach heaved so dreadfully that was a miracle her voice held as steady as it did when she lifted her head, and screamed for the physic.

O0O0O0O

**A.N.:** This chapter was, quite unexpectedly, very draining to write. I don't know why, exactly, but I do hope that some small part of the emotion it sucked out of me translates in the reading of it; if so, it was more than worth it.

Now, while the next chapter will specifically cover the battle at Anvard, I have also posted something remotely connected to it. To hear Corin reflect on fighting and how Lucy inspired him to it, you can take a peek at _How She Was_.

Up next: An Ugly Affair, wherein there is rather a lot of fighting, and very little else.


	25. An Ugly Affair

An Ugly Affair

O0O0O0O

Losing Thornbut from among their number seemed to strike a sobering note for the Narnian party as they continued on their way. People spoke very little, and though Lucy did once think to ask after Corin, Edmund replied, quite rightly, that as long as he was not among the warriors that was all they needed to know, and after that they were quite solemn indeed.

When they at last came through the pass and started down to the lower ridge, all of Archenland lay spread out below them. It would have been a lovely sight and well worth looking at, had not it been so imperative that they reach the ridge in good time. Once there, Edmund called a halt and everybody began to sort themselves into the proper positions. The King gave his sister's hand a quick squeeze before she was lost to him, Cyclamen's massive bulk vanishing behind a pair of Giants and a panther as Lucy made her way toward the archers.

"Your Majesty." Greian, a Centaur who had helped the Queen improve her shooting once she had begun riding to certain battles, looked up from his bow and inclined his head to the young woman. Lucy nodded back, slipping from the saddle to slide her bow from her shoulder and throw off her cloak, freeing her arms for shooting. The bow she braced against her foot, flexing it with practiced ease, and once the weapon was strung Lucy lifted it to try her draw. She took no small measure of satisfaction in the sweet, mellow twang of the string.

All around her, the others did the same. A few younger archers wielded finely-crafted composite bows, or the same light recurve bow that Lucy carried, but most were armed with longbows. Longbows had the greatest range, but typically required the strength of a grown man to draw; Lucy had once demanded that Greian give her the chance to try one, and Greian, against his better judgment, had handed the Queen a longbow with a light draw weight and stood well back. Poor Lucy had suffered a nasty scrape along her bow arm when she lost her grip on the string, struggling to draw it, and had become quite content with her lot.

Now, satisfied with the suitability of her string, Lucy swung back up on Cyclamen and backed him neatly between Greian and a sombre-looking little Faun whose name eluded her, helmeted and armoured as he was. Settling herself in the saddle, she had to admit that Edmund had been right about Cyclamen being the wisest choice for this battle; the charger, so familiar with the machinations taking place around him, did little more than swivel his ears to listen for any commands Lucy might issue and flare his nostrils a few times, scenting the apprehension in the air. Aravir, in a similar situation, might well have done anything at all; with the seasoned animal standing firm beneath her, the Queen found she could exhale and will her shoulders to relax just a bit.

"Nothing wrong, I trust, Majesty?" Greian may or may not have offered the ghost of a smile; Lucy chose to believe he had, and smiled back.

"No indeed . . . or, rather, very soon there won't be." Then she looked ahead and squared her shoulders just a bit, because the horn had sounded clear across the late afternoon field, and the forces were off.

O0O0O0O

Sitting a horse at full gallop isn't as tricky as it sounds, but neither is it quite as easy as some people make it look. When you try it in full battle-armour it can even be quite uncomfortable, so it was almost a relief for everyone to focus on the fast-approaching horde of Calormenes and the good work that was being accomplished by those on the Narnian side.

Up front, moving out to the left of the Narnian riders, the great Cats were speeding to their work with a terrible, silent sort of accuracy. Far faster than you might credit it they were in among the panicked horses of the dismounted Tarkaans, and with an efficient combination of snarls and swipes of heavy paws, they set to terrorising the poor creatures. Horse screams are a dreadful thing, particularly when the horses believe they are about to die, and when these are coupled with the hideous snarls and screams of panthers, leopards and the like, it is all terribly unpleasant. Had you been there to hear it, I am afraid you may have found it tricky to get a good night's sleep for at least a month after hearing them; the sounds of things dying are never very nice.

The marvellous thing about Talking Cats, though –about Talking Beasts of every sort– is that they are not like the poor, unreasoning beasts of our world; Aslan has made them quite different from regular animals, and in Narnia everybody treats them just as you would treat a person you passed on the street. Talking Beasts are every bit as sensible as you or I, so even when these Cats drew blood from the flanks of the Southern war horses, they were not driven into a mad frenzy as many creatures are at the scent of blood. Indeed, they very generously killed as few horses as possible. The remaining creatures they spooked well and truly, sending them wheeling away from the castle and into the Archenland valleys at a full gallop.

Although the poor horses were nearly with insensate with terror at the time, you may be pleased to hear that those who survived fared much better than many of their masters. Archenland is a lush, green land, full of good grazing and clear water, so that, what with one thing and another, the horses calmed very quickly once they were out of reach of the Cats and made themselves very comfortable until somebody could be bothered to go see about rounding them up again.

Those Tarkaans whose horses had not been driven off were already mounted, and under Rabadash's command they were charging straight for the oncoming Narnians. The remaining forces, deprived of their mounts, had little choice but to stay at the castle gate. For a very short time they continued their grim efforts to batter the portcullis, but this didn't last long. Almost at once they were set upon by the same Cats that had scattered their horses, and as the Calormene attackers fell or fled, a shout of triumph went up from within the castle. King Lune or one of his advisors must have seen the defeat of the rams'-men and ordered his men forth, for it was just minutes later that the chains whirred. With many ponderous creaks and groans the gates were raised, and Archenlandish fighters came rushing out in full force.

Meantime, the Narnians continued their charge at the mounted Calormenes. Edmund, tightening his knees around Irra to urge the horse forward, tried very, very hard not to think of Lucy, standing with the Narnian archers at his back. Logic told him, of course, that if the worst should happen she was in the best position to be removed from the field before any harm could befall her. Logic, however, plays precious little part in concern for loved ones, so it was no wonder that the Narnian King had to fight for a moment to regain a measure of clarity. Then the Calormenes were on them, and he thought of nothing else.

The Tarkaans Rabadash had chosen to fight with him were the fiercest sort, all of them hailing from the Eastern provinces of the Tisroc's Empire. From what Edmund had learned of Tarkaans who came from the Eastern provinces, first during his research of Calormene nobility and then during his stay in Tashbaan, he knew they were not the sort to take prisoners. Neither were they given to leniency; this was borne out when the first Tarkaan Edmund encountered gave no quarter in his attack, his scimitar flashing and gleaming dreadfully in the sun as he bent his every effort to cutting down the King.

Edmund, taking great exception to these efforts, gave back in kind. It would have been a thrilling sight had it not been such a near thing– the Calormene fighter made terrible faces and bared his teeth, and shouted some perfectly foul insults. The King, his jaw set in a manner much like that of his older brother, let the reins fall to the pommel of his saddle that he might guide Irra with knee and voice alone. This allowed him to get his shield up and grip his sword with better skill; it also gave him the balance he needed to do the thing properly, and yet, for all that the King put up an impressive show, it was an odd, daunting sort of fight.

A longsword, such as Edmund held, is a very direct sort of weapon. Unlike the scimitar, which is curved and can be of nearly any length and width the maker chooses, longswords are straight and heavy. For a mounted knight trying to keep a shield up, they make fighting imaginatively a difficult proposal at best. Edmund wasn't the only one who faced this problem– all around him, Narnians were finding they had to think very fast to alter their methods of defence.

The Narnian horses, taking cues from knees, voice, and subtle shifts in balance, did what best they could, but it was still very awkward going, especially for the Talking Horses; horses aren't born knowing what reins and legs mean, and all war-horses undergo a great deal of training before they are thought fit for battle. Talking Horses, though, never take any training in any sort of thing, since it is considered extremely offensive to ride a Talking Horse under any but the direst circumstances, so their riders had to shout to let them know what they wanted or rely on the horses to reason the thing out for themselves. It's no wonder, then, that facing the Calormenes was a tricky thing, or that it took the Narnians some precious time to get the hang of blocking these attacks.

It was really only great good fortune that gave the Narnians any advantage at all. Edmund realised it first, after he had rid himself of his first attacker and turned to meet another. All the Tarkaans, it seemed, had received very similar training in the scimitar. Edmund, blocking a vicious side-swing only just in time, realised that the same style Rabadash had demonstrated on the tournament field at Cair Paravel was evident in the way the Tarkaans came at them now. Always, it seemed, the Tarkaans opened with a grand and fearsome gesture, shouting and threatening as they did. Although in the opening assault the scimitar might be raised for a downswing or brought up from below, it would invariably be followed by a straight thrust and a vicious sweep from the side. With this realisation, everything else seemed to snap into place. The King's sword moved nearly of its own accord to parry the next blow, and finish off the attacker with one dreadful, direct thrust. Edmund then had only to spare a brief glance about him to see that his own knights and nobles were realising the same thing as he, and were finding it immeasurably easier to form some sort of defence against the patterned attack. After that it got much easier to parry blows with the Calormenes, even allowing for the difference in weaponry.

Of course, not all the Tarkaans fought with scimitars; the Narnians still encountered the odd rude surprise. Some Tarkaans seemed to prefer other weapons to the scimitar; several were armed with falchions or short, straight swords, a few wielded small battleaxes, and some carried spears. The spears were a particularly nasty affair, since you could only dodge them if you saw them coming, and they tended to come at you at an awful speed. If you didn't get your shield up in time, or your horse happened to be pressed too close to obey the cue to back or turn, you were in a pretty bad spot.

It was, Edmund would think later, perfectly idiotic of him to have left himself so open, but at the time he hadn't been thinking clearly. He had sighted Rabadash very near him some moments before, but the press of horses forced them apart. Now, sighting the Prince again and being wholly determined to have it out with the fellow, he made brutally short work of the Tarkaan facing him, dug his heels at Irra, and shouted the horse on.

Irra, seeing that there were far too many men, horses and flashing blades directly before him, prudently balked altogether, and backed up hard. Had he backed into an empty space it all might have come to nothing, but instead he backed into a horse, which took great aversion to this and delivered a sharp kick in reprimand. Irra spooked badly at the blow, and it took all of Edmund's focus to bring him under control again so he didn't see the spear coming until it was almost too late.

As Edmund calmed Irra, a thin, leering Calormene managed to get his horse right up beside them, and aimed his weapon at the King. It wasn't a long spear, which are used for more long-range fighting, but rather one of the dreadful, short spears used for close-range thrusts. Edmund didn't see it until it was scant inches from his left side; then the sun flashed down, bouncing off the gleaming point and alerting the King to the danger just seconds before it took his life.

With a cry of alarm he did the only thing he could– he dropped. There was no time to raise his shield, and doing so might have only deflected the weapon into the neck of his own horse. He hadn't thought all this through, of course, but rather had seen it all in a sort of blinding flash, and reacted accordingly, kicking off his right stirrup and dropping over to the left to land ingloriously on the ground.

"Urgh," moaned the King of Narnia, and got his feet under him as fast as he could, since a battle is no place to lie about feeling sorry for yourself. He had kept his grip on both sword and shield, which was just as well, since the first person he found facing him on rising was none other than Rabadash himself.

I wish I could say there had been some grand and glorious exchange of words between the two; maxims, perhaps, or, failing that, even a few pithy insults. But battles aren't like that –even duels are much uglier than some people would have you believe– and by this point, although Rabadash clearly had a few insults in him yet, Edmund was simply so sick and tired of anything and everything to do with Calormen that he just wanted to get the thing done and go home.

"Your sister–" Rabadash began, sneering, but Edmund, finding his patience had worn even thinner than he supposed, cut him off with a brutal slot-shot. He might even have had Rabadash's head clean off, had a nearby horse not bumped the Prince, knocking him back and out of the range of the blow. Edmund, of course, let Rabadash get back on his feet, but then he went after him again, and if the King was perhaps a bit more aggressive in his offensive than was his wont, I expect we can excuse him; he had had a very trying month.

Rabadash had clearly not expected an attack of this ferocity, and with good reason; it was nothing like Edmund's formal, stylised display on the tourney field. The King attacked and gave no quarter; it was really as dreadful and simple as that. Face dark and inscrutable under his helmet, Edmund drove the Calormene Prince back, all the way to the castle gate.

I expect Rabadash might have been finished off that very day, had not the duel been interrupted. Seeing his monarch so pressed, Ilgamuth of the Twisted Lip had attempted to finish Edmund off while his back was turned. This terrible thing might even have come to pass, had a young Archenlandish noble named Darrin not seen Ilgamuth rushing forward. Rather than attempting to intercept the attack, for which there really wasn't time, Darrin instead put a quick end to the attacker himself, and Ilgamuth fell forward, directly between Edmund and Rabadash.

The sudden appearance of a body rather interrupted their footwork, and both men dropped back in confusion. Then Rabadash, taking heart at Ilgamuth's cowardly example, thought to scramble up on a nearby mounting block (I'm afraid I don't know how it got there, but Rabadash, you may be sure, was very pleased to find it) and beleaguer Edmund from above. This might have gone very well for him, and very badly for Edmund, but he had forgotten about the Narnian archers on the far ridge. As five arrows flew at him in rapid succession, one of them nearly catching him full on the nose, he thought it best to leap down again.

With a fierce and dreadful howl (what, Edmund wondered, was the purpose in so much shouting? Didn't they know it wore them out that much faster?) Rabadash leaped from his mounting block.

"The bolt of Tash falls from above!" he crowed, but what ought to have been a fierce and glorious descent was rather badly spoilt by a hook protruding from the castle wall, just waiting for such an occasion. It caught Rabadash's hauberk so neatly you might have thought he planned it that way, and there he hung.

Now, Edmund likely meant to see directly to securing his defeated opponent, but before he could, another Tarkaan, whose face the King recognised but whose name eluded him, took this chance to make a rush at him. By this time Darrin was quite busy with a Tarkaan of his own, so he couldn't perform the same service he had with Ilgamuth, and Edmund was forced to confront the newcomer –_Chlamash!_ he thought, with vague triumph. That had been the fellow's name, Chlamash. Whatever would Lucy have made of _that_?– on his own.

Chlamash was not as daunted by Edmund's direct, purposeful style of hand-to-hand as his Prince had been, so the duel took all of the King's focus, and in being absorbed by the new challenge, I am afraid he rather forgot about Rabadash for a time.

Fortunately it was not within the Prince's ability, hung up as he was, to take the same cowardly approach as had Ilgamuth (though had he not been so inconvenienced, I'm afraid he'd have come to it quickly enough) and instead he was obliged to hang there, rather ingloriously, and wait for people to remember him. It's not very nice, of course, to know one has been entirely forgotten, but in Rabadash's case I daresay it could not have done him anything but good.

It wasn't just Rabadash, however, that Edmund forgot. Indeed, as he fought the Tarkaan before him, he rather lost track of things all around him. It happens, of course, to all the best swordsmen; they become so caught up in the duel, the world about them just seems to slip away. To Edmund, the gradual surrender of those Tarkaans who had neither fled nor been killed was at very best a remote, peripheral event. For the King there was only the clank and jingle of his armour and mail, the slippery rustle and clink of Chlamash's robes and elaborate protective gear, and the dreadful slash, crash and squeal of his longsword blade against that of Chlamash's scimitar.

The Tarkaan, he realised, was a good and fierce fighter. He had not wasted breath or energy in shouting insults and threats, as most of the others seemed to do. He also seemed more inclined to improvise on the formal style of battle common to all the Tarkaans, and as the fight continued, Edmund found he was admiring his opponent almost in spite of himself. It was only as he came to this realisation that he also realised the battle around them had ceased; all was quiet, and those still standing were watching the two men locked in combat at the castle gate. Chlamash, it seemed, saw it too.

"Why do you not surrender?" Edmund asked kindly, and at hearing this, a flicker of emotion broke through the stony countenance of the warrior opposite him.

"What," he cried, delivering a vicious thrust that Edmund barely parried, "cast off my sword, only to be cut down like a dog? Never let it be said I allowed such a thing! I will die in battle, as befits my lineage! Only a noble death will ensure that my wives and daughters will burn offerings in my memory, and that my sons will remember me without shame."

"I won't cut you down," Edmund assured him, following his parry with a direct thrust that Chlamash blocked with some effort. "It is not our way to kill those who have surrendered to us; indeed, you have my word as a Knight and a King that if you will put up your sword, I will do everything in my power to see you restored to your family, your property and your homeland before three nights have passed."

It was clearly not in the code of Tarkaans to believe the word of Knights or Kings, but Chlamash seemed impressed all the same.

"Swear," he demanded, barely blocking Edmund's next thrust in time. "On the life of your brother, on the virtue of your sisters, swear to me it shall be so."

Edmund was startled to find that, again quite in spite of himself, he was feeling nothing but pity for a fellow who didn't know how to take somebody at his word. Even as he delivered another thrust, driving the man back against the castle wall, he shook his head and looked a little sad.

"Narnian men do not take such oaths," he said quietly. "My yes is my yes; my no is my no. But I will tell you this; as I love my brother, my sisters and my home, so do I love my honour. You can believe it shall be as I have said."

I do not know whether it was Edmund's gravity that so impressed the Tarkaan, or if the man's breath –which had been depleted by talking and fighting– had simply reached the point of giving out entirely. I choose, though, to believe it was something in Edmund's face that caused Chlamash to nod, just once.

"Very well," he said, "as you have spoken it, so may it be." When he threw his sword and shield to the ground, Edmund did not wait long in lowering his own.

"You have chosen well," he said, and in looking on the face of the King who stood before him, Chlamash knew it was so.

O0O0O0O

"Oh for pity's sake," Lucy cried, "let me _go_!" She squirmed hard as Greian, wholly unperturbed, kept one broad hand locked respectfully but unyieldingly around the young Queen's wrist. Running through his fingers were Cyclamen's reins, thus keeping both Lucy and her mount anchored in place at the Centaur's side.

"Forgive me, your Majesty," he said politely, "but absolutely not."

"But it's _over_!" Lucy scowled, still struggling to free her hand. "Only look down there, won't you? All the Calormenes have laid down arms! Nobody's fighting anymore, they're all . . . what_ are_ they doing, anyhow?"

"It would seem to me, Madam, that they are all looking at some object on the wall of the castle. I cannot quite make out what it is."

"Well," Lucy said briskly, still wiggling in a valiant effort to work her wrist free and recapture the reins, "why don't we just go over and see?"

"Your pardon, my lady, but I cannot permit it. While it is true the Calormenes all appear to have laid down arms and acknowledged the victory of your brother and King Lune, it is still no safe place for a lady and a Queen to walk. Any of the men might, at any moment, produce some concealed weapon, and I would not for the world give him another weapon by placing you in their midst. Only when they have been bound can I permit you to advance."

"Well," Lucy scowled, at last ceasing her fierce efforts to break free of the Centaur's powerful grip, "that's rather unfair."

It took her a moment to realise that the rich, rough sound that followed was actually that of Greian's laughter; once she discovered this, she looked up at him in no small amazement. She had never heard him laugh before.

"It is," he smiled at her, his solemn, horsy face becoming almost kindly. "I agree, it is unfair for one who has fought so well to be denied the pleasure of witnessing our victory, but if you will excuse my presumption, will you not see it as your brother does? You are as dear to him as only a sister can be. If I had forced him to see you endangered, I could not counsel anything but that he run me through."

This was a new way of looking at the thing, and it quite distressed Lucy. "Oh, no!" she said, and used her free hand to pat Greian's. "I would never let Edmund blame you for such a thing! He would know it was my fault entirely, I assure you."

"He might think so," Greian allowed, "but I would know better, Madam. I would reproach only myself. Please," with another, smaller smile, "do not ask it of me."

Lucy, far more moved by this gentle plea than she had been even at the threat of armed Calormene warriors seizing her, at once nodded most emphatically.

"Of course not, Greian," she reassured him. "Of course I won't do that to you." So they remained side by side on the ridge, comrades at arms, looking on as Rabadash was at last taken down and carried inside. And though it burned in Lucy to know what it was that had them all cheering so fiercely so soon afterward, she held her chin as high as any of the rest of them, and did not break rank until Greian finally said it was safe to ride down and join the warriors below.

O0O0O0O

**A.N.:** I hope this chapter was as much fun to read as it was to write! If you did have fun reading it you have Francienyc to thank, as she talked me into covering the battle at Anvard (actually she said something like "I'm sorry you're not going to" and I said "no, wait, I will!" Because I am suggestibility personified).

I am also anxious to address an issue raised by the last chapter; I hadn't realised readers saw so many of the peripheral characters as human! While I do write the nobles and most (not all) of the people from the fishing village as human, Cair Paravel is, to my mind, largely populated and staffed by non-human Narnians. There were no humans in Narnia for a hundred years, after all; I don't imagine they returned in droves! I am planning a fic that addresses the restoration of land to human stewardship, but I wanted to clear up that misunderstanding right away.

Up next: General Tidying-Up, wherein Queens demand explanations of Kings and Princes alike.


	26. General Tidying Up

General Tidying-Up

O0O0O0O

"No, you idiot, put your head back." It took Peter a very long, hazy moment before he recognised the speaker, and an even longer, hazier one before he recognised the room around him, flickering as it was in the lamplight.

"I'm home," he said, and the stark concern that drew Susan's brows together seemed to lighten just a fraction as she smiled, and said he was.

"Although it's no thanks to you," she added, scowling. "I am _very cross_ at you, Peter! I've had a word with the Marshal, you know, and he told me you didn't even ride back! You had to be carried! In a _litter_! You were_ that_ wounded!"

"It's not so bad," Peter tried to sit up, but regretted the effort when his chest screamed, his stomach lurched and the room seemed to dip and twirl around him. "All right," he flopped back, "so it's bad. Sort of. It could have been worse."

"It very nearly was." Susan looked down at him with such naked fear that Peter wondered if he might perhaps be dying, and she just wanted to spare him the burden of knowing it. When he asked her if it was so, however, he was poked sternly in the shoulder –the one part of him that didn't seem to be in some way torn, bruised or bandaged– and called an idiot, which criticism he accepted with good grace.

"Are they . . ." he paused to accept a sip of water she forced on him, with the help of the clucking physic behind her, "what losses have we suffered?"

"Not as many as we might have, had you not arrived in time," Susan prevaricated, setting aside the pewter goblet she held. "Our greatest losses are in the form of minor casualties, rather than . . ." But here she stopped, because the word 'fatality' would simply not rise to her lips. Instead, she fussed with the counterpane as the physic murmured that his Majesty seemed to be out of danger, but if her Majesty had any need of him, she had only to send word.

"It could have been so very much worse, Peter," Susan said quietly, once the physic had left and her brother asked her why she looked like such a stormcloud. "To have drawn a sword when you already had such injuries . . ." she bit her lip.

"What happened?" Peter squinted up at the canopy, trying to remember. "I mean, I know that one of the Giants caught me broadside with his club –ugly, spiked affairs, those clubs– but that was days ago. I want to know what happened today; here, I mean. We were riding home –and making jolly good time, too, I might add– and then . . ."

Then they had heard the sound. The deep, pure note had bit into his heart and sent him into such a panic he hardly knew what happened next. Tarva had been tethered beside him, conveniently riderless, and Peter had made it down from the litter and up onto the horse before anyone knew what had happened. Together the King and Tarva set the pace back to the castle, Peter's sheer, tangible panic driving the horse on in a manner that no whip cut ever could have.

"We heard your horn," he realised, and Susan nodded.

"I didn't mean for you to, of course," she reproved, as if he could somehow have helped it. "I don't know exactly what we meant, but it wasn't that; we didn't even know you were on your way. It only seemed the proper thing to do at the time."

"For you to have done it, it must have been," Peter agreed, and his sister flushed crimson. "So we heard your horn, we came running, and . . . it all gets a little hazy there." He grimaced, trying to recall it, to piece details back in their proper place.

"I was in the keep," Susan said quietly. "When you arrived, I mean; you got here after the fighting had started, and by then, I was already in the keep. They had begun to batter the door."

"Oh, yes." That bit, at least, he remembered. "We came at the Cair from the forest gate; nearly gave poor Gillikin the fright of his life, I'm afraid, but one of the gardeners saw our banner, so that was all right."

"I heard him," Susan realised. "He called for Narnia and the Lion; I didn't know he was announcing you."

"No? Well, he got them all to wise up, anyway; the rest of the lot thought we were Calormenes, or some such. They got the gate unblocked pretty quick after that, though you wouldn't believe the lot they'd found to pile against it: bales of hay, tack, carriages, bits of armour and every other thing you can think of. I'm afraid they tipped one of the carriages, shifting it; made a dreadful crash. Then we were in, and we were on them in a trice– those of us fit to stand, at least."

"Those, and you," Susan said wryly, and Peter had the grace to blush just a little.

"All right, so I'm in poor shape; nothing a few days' rest won't cure. My memory's still a bit foggy, though. I can't quite . . . did I come right after you, then?"

"You must have done," Susan decided. "I heard them still calling about the banner when I was up in the battlements, so you must have just reached the courtyard. I don't know how you knew where to find me, though."

"Nor do I," Peter said cheerfully, clearly willing to let this detail slide if only he could piece together the larger bits. "It must have been frightfully quick work on my part, though. It's all such a muddle . . . I do remember somebody telling me about you, though I can't remember what he said. I remember climbing over a rubbish heap of a door, and then I remember running that fellow through in the tower room . . . oh, I think I knocked my knee against one of the steps."

"Yes, so did I," Susan admitted.

"Then you know it hurts like nothing else," Peter decided, and Susan agreed that she did. "But yes, the part I remember best is handling that little chap in the tower room, and then the one who came at me next . . . did he call me names?"

"The second one? I think so, yes."

"Good, then I remember that part properly, too. And after that . . ." He shut his eyes, and Susan thought he was trying to recall what had followed. She couldn't have known he was seeing the one thing he remembered perfectly– the look of empty terror in his sister's eyes, and how the dagger had glittered in the sun as it drew those scarlet drops from the smooth white throat. He didn't think he'd ever be able to get it out of his mind. When he spoke, he was careful to keep his voice very, very steady. "After that, I seem to have done what I set out to do."

"You did," Susan agreed, and her slim, bandaged hand hovered over his larger, equally bandaged one, patting it reassuringly. "You did marvellously, Peter, you really did. I think we should have been quite lost, but for you."

"And," Peter said with unmistakeable gravity, "the Cair should have been quite lost, but for you. No," seeing his sister was about to demur, "no, it's quite true, Susan. You held them off brilliantly; I shouldn't have thought it even possible, given what you had to work with, but . . . you did it."

"Well, of course I did." Her eyes opened in hurt surprise. "I hadn't any choice, Peter; this is my home."

And he did not dismiss her words with a careless 'I know' as so many might have done, because Peter, of course, knew exactly what she meant.

O0O0O0O

As Cair Paravel recovered from the attack, those in Archenland were doing much the same. King Lune had arranged for quarters and care for the wounded, and imprisonment for the conquered enemies. Then it was suggested that everyone should have supper taken up to their rooms, which sounded well to all.

"Do they always happen so _quickly_?" Lucy wondered, and if her laugh was a trifle shaky, we really can't blame her. Edmund, divested of his armour and watching as one of the maids carefully bound up his knuckles, which had been jammed under his own armour when he fell from Irra's back to dodge the spear, found he had to smile.

"Would you have preferred a lengthier ordeal?" he wondered, then flinched as the bandage was pulled too tight. Lucy, seeing the face her brother made, chased away the maid and took charge. With deft, gentle turns she wound the clean linen around the bruised hand, tied the ends off and sat back to tell Edmund not to be ridiculous.

"Of course I wouldn't rather it have taken longer; I only ask because you have seen more battles than I, and each one _I_ have seen seems to happen all at once. Each time I expect that it must _surely_ take a little longer, but each time it's all simply a blur. I find I haven't any time to get angry that we have to fight at all!"

"And surely that's just as well," Edmund decided. "After all, what purpose could it serve anyone if you were to be angry at soldiers who are only following the orders of their leader?"

It was such a dishearteningly practical observation that Lucy made a terrible face of her own and said she was going to see Corin. Edmund, gingerly flexing his hand, said very well, then, but she had better not be late returning for supper. His sister said if he thought such a thing were possible, then he didn't know Corin.

It didn't take Lucy long at all to locate the little prince, and with him she found a freshly-scrubbed, very uncertain-looking fellow who looked exactly like Corin. Smiling at both boys, Lucy marvelled that her brother and sister could ever have been so mistaken as to the similarities between the two; for all that he had the same face as Corin, the older boy seemed far more cautious in his manner, and nothing at all like the Prince she knew. While Corin was on his feet and forward in a trice at seeing Lucy enter, the other boy was much slower to rise, and he hovered uncertainly in the background as Corin began to regale Lucy with a detailed account of the battle as he had seen it. Lucy dimpled merrily until at last her friend stopped to draw breath, and she was able to get a word in.

"Yes, it was the most terrible thing, wasn't it?" she observed. "I hear _you_ acquitted yourself most credibly, though– not that I should ever have thought it could be otherwise. But here, now," with an engaging smile, holding out a hand to the quieter of the pair, "we have yet to be properly introduced. Unless there are more of you than I was led to believe, you are our dear friend's long-lost son, are you not? I heard the cheers all the way back where the archers stood, and when I at last reached the castle, you were all anyone could talk about!"

"Oh," said the boy, very wide-eyed, "well, I . . . yes, they say I'm Prince Cor. I didn't _know_," he added, as if he expected Lucy to scold him for not revealing his identity when first they met. "I hadn't the least idea I was anything Royal."

"My dear," Lucy smiled, seating herself at Corin's belated invitation, "nobody holds you accountable for not remembering who birthed you! You were only a small boy when your father's courtier betrayed him and stole you away; I was not here when it happened, but when we lost your mother to the fever and my sister –whom I believe you have met, though she did not know it at the time– came to your father's court to see if she might help, she heard the dreadful tale at least a dozen times. Everyone in the Archenland knows what a blow it was to your family to lose you. You have been much missed these past years, and nobody seeks to scold you for being so long gone." Her smile when saying this was so infectious that Cor's face relaxed at once, and Corin whirled on him with a look of triumph.

"There, you see?" he declared, "I told you! And if Queen Lucy says a thing, then you _know_ it's so." He then looked back to Lucy, and had they not been such friends, the open admiration on the boy's face might have made her blush.

"Your boasting does me too much credit, Corin," Lucy scolded, but could not quite make her dimples disappear, so Corin knew she wasn't really cross. "Now I will confess my real reason for coming to see you; as delightful as your company is, and greatly as I look forward to sharing in it quite soon, I cannot do so just yet. First I need to learn from you–"

"–where Rabadash is imprisoned," Corin finished, and Lucy gave him a look of such shock that he felt compelled to shrug and explain his reasoning. "Of course you want to see him. I know it won't do any good to wait until everybody is hovering around, watching you; they might not let you say everything you want to. _I_ want to speak with him, too," he added, and here his eyes flashed so fiercely that Lucy felt a little alarmed at the sight of it, and said no indeed, he might not.

"I appreciate your fervour," she added, "but this is my own confrontation to make. Susan is _my_ sister, and our brothers are both far too much Knights of the Lion to countenance the sort of things I mean to say. They would say it was unbecoming of a gentleman, and I daresay they would be quite right. It is to my great good fortune," she concluded, "that I am no gentleman."

"I needn't be a gentleman either," Corin offered, but Lucy said no, thank you, she thought he had better try to be.

"I would count it a great favour, however," she said quietly, "if you would be so good as to show me where the Prince is being held, and arrange it so that I might speak with him on my own."

This was clearly not Corin's idea of sport, but it was just as clearly the only part Lucy was prepared to let him take in hers, so he finally conceded it was better than nothing at all. Motioning at his brother and the Narnian Queen to keep very quiet, the Prince led them both out of his chambers, into the corridor beyond.

O0O0O0O

The voyage to the dungeon was much more of an ordeal than Lucy had imagined it might be. The gaol in Cair Paravel was not overlarge, and it was not a chore to obtain access to it, but the prison in King Lune's castle seemed to be a bit more complicated than that; at least, this was the impression Lucy gathered as she listened to Corin explain his plan to gain her entry.

"I might convince one of the guards," he whispered, as they made their way down a passageway at the back of the castle toward the narrow service stairs at the end, "but only one of them. The others are all much too strict, and they'd never allow you in to see him without Father saying it was all right– mind the top step, Queen Lucy, it tends to catch you up."

Queen Lucy minded the top step, as did Prince Cor behind her. The journey got more uncomfortable at this point, since the steep, cut-stone steps were terribly cramped. The odd little band had to travel one behind the other until they got to the bottom and came up against a low, dark door set with heavy iron hinges and a rough iron ring. The ring was rubbed smooth and shiny where people gripped it to push the door in, and it was here that Corin caught it up and heaved with all his might, grimacing when the heavy portal refused to give more than an inch.

Lucy, sensing a need for haste, applied her shoulder to the door as well, and so did Prince Cor. They made an awful lot of noise, I am afraid, and if anybody had been within even twenty yards of them it is quite certain they should have been found out at once. Everybody was grimacing and groaning, and they were at one point breathing so hard that the torches set along the wall flickered alarmingly, but at last they managed to make an opening wide enough even for Lucy.

"I have to come with you," Corin insisted, when Lucy tried to take her leave of the princes at that point. "I need to tell the guard what you want; he won't trust you, otherwise." This may have been a slight exaggeration, since all Archenlandish subjects knew who the Narnian Kings and Queens were, but Lucy forbore to debate the point. Instead she said very well, then, and placed a hand on Cor's shoulder when she saw he was looking rather doubtful about this turn of events.

"You'll be back out again soon enough," she pointed out, so the boy squared his shoulders a bit nervously, and walked with her into the narrow corridor.

Corin led the way, and Lucy and Cor were careful to keep up. This passage was lit not by colourful glass windows and blazing torches, as were the corridors above, but by small iron lamps hanging from the walls. These gave a very small flame, providing just enough light to illuminate the stone floor and the heavy doors set along the wall. It was actually much cleaner and far more pleasant than other dungeons, and it hardly smelled at all, but to the two boys and Lucy it looked an unpleasant sort of place indeed.

"Are- are all the people in here to die?" Cor asked, so softly that Lucy barely heard him. Corin heard, though, and tossed an indignant look over his shoulder.

"No, of course not! They're just here for their own wrongdoing. They stay until their sentence is served, and they go home. Don't believe everything you heard down South; we aren't _really_ barbarians, you know."

Although the light was too dark to show it clearly, Lucy rather fancied Cor got quite red in the face at hearing this, and she was quick to intervene.

"Cor knows perfectly well we aren't barbarians, Corin!" she scolded, and gave the older boy's shoulder a quick squeeze to comfort him. "Corin didn't mean it like that, you know; he only meant that we have a different method of dealing with criminals than you may be used to. I understand that the Tarkaans all have private gaols in their homes, isn't that so? And isn't it true that an imprisoned man may be tortured or killed, if his crime is deemed severe enough?" Cor, who had often heard stories such as these, nodded timidly. Lucy nodded too, and continued to explain. "All Corin really meant is that here in the North, we have a different way of handling things. We think that such methods are perhaps a touch . . . extreme, and better fitted to tyrants than to good, even-handed rulers."

Corin turned again, looking as though he might very much like to add some colour to this euphemistic interpretation, but he wasn't given the chance, as at that moment a large guard appeared to cast a doubtful look over the trio.

"Your Highness?" he said, but made it very much a question. Corin, not in the least daunted, drew himself up to his full height to reply.

"The Queen Lucy would like to speak with Prince Rabadash."

The guard turned his gaze to Lucy. Though his expression may have lessened in scepticism it remained largely doubtful, and Lucy saw, with some alarm, that Corin was getting ready to insist. Her hand flashed out, caught the boy by the collar and tugged him back with an effort –when, she wondered, had he gotten so _big_? He was nearly past her chin– before she addressed the guard herself.

"It concerns an incident that took place during the Envoy's time in Calormen," she said, and spoke no more. Her hand, tightening briefly around Corin's shoulder, ensured that he kept silent, too. Whether it was the solemnity of her tone or the expression on her face that convinced him, Lucy was not sure, but the guard gave her a long, measuring look, and nodded.

"Very well," he grunted, "but I cannot countenance you entering his room alone. You'll need to speak to him with a guard, or from without."

"Of course," Lucy agreed, "I will be happy to have a guard with me." Then, when the guard eyed the princes askance, Lucy was quick to tell them both to wait for her in the stairwell. Corin bristled at this, but the older girl was unyielding. "Do not question me in this, Corin," she insisted. "This, I must do quite on my own."

In the end it was Cor who dragged his brother off, leaving Lucy to wait until she was certain they were beyond the door. Then she followed the guard down a side passage, this one even cleaner and better-lit than the first. The large brass lamps along the walls lit the corridor handsomely, and there were clean rushes on the floor. Lucy's guide stopped at one of the doors at the very end, which looked as innocent as many of the doors in the wing where Lucy herself was quartered, save that it had to be unlocked by a heavy key from the guard's own keyring first.

"This is his Highness, here," the guard observed, and tapped almost politely on the portal. "Prince Rabadash, you've yourself a visitor."

Prince Rabadash was unimpressed with this announcement, and indicated as much with a string of florid Calormene curses that made Lucy raise her eyebrows in spite of herself. Lucy had heard some colourful things travelling with the army, but Rabadash cursed most extensively, calling down the wrath of Tash on all the guard's ancestors, his family, livestock and neighbours, too. The guard, unmoved by these elaborate threats, simply waited until the prisoner had spent all his breath, and had to gasp for more. Then he gave the Queen a polite nod.

"As you see fit, your Majesty," he decided, and pushed the door in with some degree of caution. He preceded the Queen inside the room and made sure the Prince wasn't about to try anything impolite before he at last allowed Lucy to present herself in the doorway, and peer cautiously inside.

Rabadash, far from being incarcerated in a dank, filthy, rat-infested cell –as you may think would be perfectly fair treatment for one such as he– had been given a room that would have been comfortable by most any standards. There was a fair-sized window high in one wall, and the room was furnished comfortably with a soft bed, a nice chair and a writing desk. A small lamp on the desk was glowing softly, casting a pleasant light over everything, and there were even, Lucy saw, a few books on a low shelf. Somehow these niceties cheered her immeasurably. She hadn't felt entirely settled in her mind, coming to yell at a man locked in a repulsive hole in the ground, but speaking to a man who had been offered far more comforts than he deserved seemed quite another thing.

For his part, Rabadash glowered at Lucy for a moment before recognising her. Lucy knew the moment he realised who she was, for it was then that he leaped to his feet with a singularly unpleasant look on his face, his lip curling in disgust. The guard behind Lucy didn't exactly _do _anything, but he shifted his feet a bit, thumped his cudgel into the palm of his hand and recalled Rabadash to his presence in the room. The Prince subsided, though he did not sit again, and addressed her in such tones as made the young Queen's flesh creep.

"And so," he sneered, "as befits the King of a backward, barbarian country, Edmund sends no great man but his own sweet sister to berate me."

Lucy considered replying, but, for a reason even she could not name, decided against it at that point. Instead she kept quiet, and regarded the Prince with a sort of solemn silence that he foolishly mistook for meekness on her part.

"I see," he said, with such a dreadful note to his voice that it unsettled even the guard, "that at least one of the women in this accursed country knows how to hold her tongue."

The implicit slur against her sister was almost enough to drive Lucy to slap the mouth that made it. Her little palms tingled, itching to come into contact with that mocking countenance, and at that moment she wanted, more than anything else in the world, to strike the smirk from his loathsome face. She longed to make him suffer what she had suffered; to make him see what those three weeks had been to her, the nights she had spent pacing the floor of her chamber, mourning a sister she expected any day to lose. She wanted to make him see what he had cost them, and she longed, above all, to make him understand that he had lost.

But there were no words for that; nor were there blows enough to pound it into him. So Lucy stood quite still, a girl-queen looking impossibly out of place in that quiet room in a remote corner of King Lune's comfortable gaol, and she said nothing at all. It's quite possible she wouldn't even have known what to say had she chosen to speak, though I like to think she would have found the words had she wanted to. Instead she faced him directly, quite small and pale and solemn but otherwise very regal, and in fact she looked very much as Susan herself had looked when she had faced Rabadash days before, in Tashbaan.

That resemblance was what infuriated Rabadash most, for it was what made him realise that, even when he had supposed he had Susan in his power, she had in fact been as much out of his reach as was Lucy now. It was that very resemblance that made him leap for the young Queen, moving so fast and with such rage that the dreadful, long fingers actually closed about Lucy's slender throat before the guard was able to act. Brandishing his cudgel and shouting warningly, the guard moved in and drove the Prince back, leaving Lucy badly shaken, her throat smarting but otherwise none the worse for wear.

"Your Majesty," the guard stepped back once he had made sure Rabadash knew better than to try such a trick again, "Queen Lucy, are you all right?"

"Yes, I– yes," Lucy nodded, clearing her throat noisily, touching it, "thank you, I am." And her head was suddenly clearer and her voice stronger than they had been in a very long time. I am afraid the same cannot be said for Rabadash, who gnashed his teeth and rolled his eyes and howled like a spoilt child.

"I _will_ have her!" he ranted, his voice rising to a shriek. "I will have her yet, the lying shrew, the daughter of dogs; I will have her for my own, and she will live to know her defiance of me for the folly it was! I will beat from her body every deceitful word, every proud thought, every bewitching look that ensnared me. I will trample these accursed lands to dust and ruin, I will blot their names from the memory of all men! And she shall watch it happen; she will see her family fall, her castle razed, her kingdom laid to ash and waste, and she will know it was lost all for her vanity! She will _suffer_ for her pride, for her–"

"_Enough!_" You would not have thought a girl as small as Lucy could thunder, but thunder she did, and she looked rather terrible as she did it. "Enough! I could put up with your idiocy until the stars fell from the heavens, but I will _not_ hear you speak against my sister. She is beyond blame in this; she is beyond your reproach, and she is certainly," witheringly; contemptuously, "beyond _you_."

Again the Prince looked as if he might leap at her, but this time he seemed to think better of it. It was not the guard that forced him to reconsider, though; rather it was the icy fire in Queen Lucy's eyes that quenched, for the moment, even the fires of the Prince's self-righteous fury. In the ensuing silence, Lucy spoke.

"You came into my home," she said, and though her voice trembled a little, she herself did not, "and I saw you for the ridiculous thing you are. At the time I spoke out of turn, and for my haste, I paid dearly. I did my sister the discredit of thinking her weak enough to be deceived by you. I thought her vain; I thought it my place to protect her. I timed it badly and behaved still worse, and I have regretted it ever since." Lucy paused for just a moment to collect herself; speaking truths so close to the heart is always a trying thing.

"Now, though," her hands clenched just once, "it is _my_ turn. I know what you are, and I know who she is; I know, too, what she is not. _You_ are the liar who tried to make her less than herself. You are the sneak who sought to win her by flattery, though you would have kept her by force. You took her to your wretched land, and you would have kept her there until she died of self-loathing. She, who is my sister, who is so sweet and gentle, so very above and beyond you that it makes me laugh to think that either of us ever believed you could win her! She is a thousand times the Queen I could ever be. She is mine; she is Narnia's. She can never be otherwise. She will never," fiercely, "_ever_ be yours."

On that note, the tenuous control Lucy had kept over herself snapped, and rather than let the Prince see her end this fine speech in floods of tears, she whirled about and flew from the room, leaving the guard to lock it behind her. Gasping and shaking, Lucy flew down the corridor to the door at the end of it, dashed through the narrow opening, and found them there– Cor and Corin, looking a trifle bored, but waiting patiently all the same.

"Lucy!" Corin was on his feet in an instant, his eyes wide and somewhat fearful at the sight of the fierce, sunny little Queen collapsing in tears.

"I'm all right," she gasped, fumbling for her hanky, "I'm all right, really I–" but it was such a lie that she couldn't even finish it. Instead she sank to the steps, everything she had held inside that past month breaking free, and Corin, with a look on his face far different from that which had been there when Susan had wept, told Cor to go upstairs and wait for them there. Then he sat on the steps beside Lucy, put his arm firmly 'round her shoulders, and held her as she cried.

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**A.N.:** This chapter has been, in some ways, two months in the making. It's a terribly tricky thing sometimes, being a sister! I only hope I managed in Lucy to strike that fine balance between lady and lioness that can be so tricky for a sister to maintain; far too often, it seems, the lioness wins out!

Up next: Love, Loss and Leave-Taking, wherein friends are made, two young ladies have a serious discussion, and a good-bye is said.


	27. Love, Loss and Leave Taking

Love, Loss and Leave-Taking

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It is just as well for Corin and Lucy that the Prince had ordered his brother to wait on the stairs for them; Cor, worthy little fellow, got up enough courage to head off no fewer than seven persons who would otherwise have gone down the stairs to find the weeping Queen and the Prince who was doing his best to comfort her. I don't know which of them would have been more embarrassed at such a thing, so it's really rather fortunate that nobody was given the chance to try.

When at last Lucy got hold of herself and realised Corin was still sitting with her, she exclaimed in some surprise that he hadn't needed to do that. Corin, in reply, simply said he wouldn't have been much of a friend if he hadn't, and waited until the Queen declared herself fit to rise before he led the way back up the stairs.

Cor met them just below the door that opened into the kitchens, and greeted them with no small relief. Speaking up to adults didn't come easily to him, and to have spoken up to seven had clearly taken a toll on the boy; he was definitely anxious to get away from the spot as soon as possible. As they climbed the stairs back to the wing of the castle that housed the royals, Lucy prevailed upon the older Prince to relate to her all of the adventures he had had since his abduction so many years before. Cor was rather shy to begin with, but Corin, who had precious little patience with shyness, soon got the start of it out of him, and after that Cor felt it would be rude of him to stop, so he just kept going.

"He was a Talking Horse?" Lucy gasped, when the boy explained how he had first come to know his friend Bree. "But however did he get to Calormen, then?"

"He was captured by horse-traders," Cor explained. "He said used to range on the Southern slopes. His mother warned him not to, but he did anyway."

"Yes, I understand many of the foals do," Lucy said, and looked very unhappy. "But my goodness, that's terrible. In Narnia it would be kidnapping, you know– if you took a Talking Foal, you would be charged as if you had stolen a child."

Cor had clearly not known this, and appeared suitably impressed to learn it. He then went on to relate how he and Bree had been thrown in with another Talking Horse and Aravis, the young Tarkheena whose mare the horse had been. As if anticipating Lucy's opinion of the sort of creature who would dare to make a habit of riding a free subject of Narnia –never mind claiming ownership of one– Cor quickly explained that Aravis hadn't known Hwin, her mare, was a Talking Horse.

"Hwin did the same as Bree; she was careful not to let on she could speak."

"I expect that was prudent of her," Lucy allowed, and Cor continued his tale, describing the perilous trek to Tashbaan and how he had gotten separated from Aravis and the two horses when King Edmund had mistaken him for Corin.

"I really don't see how he could have done such a thing!" Lucy complained, for to her the two boys were as dissimilar as day and night. While Corin was fairly bursting with energy and fire, Cor was far more reticent, with a much more cautious, contemplative nature than that of his brother. Cor said he supposed that, as grubby as he had been at the time, anyone might have done the same. "I _suppose_," Lucy frowned, and let the boy go on with his story. He related, with bright-red face and neck, how he had overheard the escape plans made by the Narnians, and how Corin had returned just in time to permit his unwitting impostor to escape out the window to wait at the tombs for Aravis.

"She was an awful time getting there," he said, as they reached the doorway they wanted and entered the narrow corridor that would lead them to their quarters. "I thought she might have been captured or something, but when she showed up she explained where she'd been, and how she'd learned about what Rabadash had planned. We realised we had to get right away as fast as we could, and from there we– we crossed the desert, and we came to the Hermit's house."

"You say it as if it were nothing!" Lucy said, shaking her head in wonder. "It must have been a dreadful journey, though– the desert is just the worst thing."

Cor, who was rather of that opinion himself, shrugged a bit and blushed harder. Corin, scowling rather a lot at seeing Lucy's open admiration, asked abruptly what had become of Aravis. Cor's expression at once became far less settled.

"I– I don't exactly know," he faltered. "There was a lion . . . that was how we reached the Hermit's in time. He jumped at her, and– he didn't mean it!" The poor boy suddenly looked like he might cry. "He didn't mean to kill her, I mean, he only meant to scratch her a bit, but . . . but I haven't seen her since I left her. I think she's all right –I _hope_ she's all right– but . . . I really don't _know_."

"Well, then," Lucy said, with the same sort of cheerful efficiency that she had displayed all throughout organising Edmund and Susan's banquet, "we simply must see to it that you find out. I'll ride there myself, if need be, and ask after her. Really," sounding a little dismayed, "it's the very least we might do for her. Were it not for her, we would never have learned of the attack at all!"

"You can bring her here!" Corin cried, seized with that particular triumph that accompanies the onset of a new plan. "Bring her here, to the castle! She'd like that, wouldn't she? I'm sure Father would say yes; he'll think it's a grand idea!"

"Oh," said Cor, looking very white and wide-eyed, "do you think?"

"Of course!" Corin said impatiently, clearly at a loss as to understand his brother's reluctance. "Come on, then; we can ask him right now!"

"Well . . ." said Corin, and turned a look of such distress on Lucy that it took all the self control at her command to keep from smiling.

"I know that his Highness's enthusiasm can be overwhelming," she laughed, "but in this instance, it is not unfounded. There are few men with warmer hearts than your father, Cor; if you appeal to him on behalf of your good friend, a young lady whose courage and heart have already been vouched for both by her deeds and your praise, I assure you that you will not find him slow to welcome her."

Cor was still not entirely convinced, but with Corin pulling on his arm and Lucy's warm smile giving him the encouragement he needed, he allowed himself to be pulled down the hall to the sitting room of the King. King Lune was delighted to see his sons and Queen Lucy, and he pressed rather a lot of his own supper on the three of them before he would consent to hear their petition. Munching on a drumstick, Cor stumbled over his explanation of who Aravis was, and with some prodding from his brother and help from his new friend he finally got around to saying if it wasn't too much trouble, maybe it might be possible to have her visit.

"Visit!" King Lune chortled. "What, the little demoiselle who has had as clear a hand in saving our kingdom as you yourself? No indeed! I will hear of nothing less than your firm insistence that she stay with us for as long as she wishes."

This was, of course, what Cor had really hoped to hear; his courage had simply not been equal to the task of asking outright. He nodded gratefully to his father, and said well, yes, of course he'd be happy to ask her to stay.

"I– I suppose there's room?" he said timidly, and King Lune's laugh was nicest, jolliest sort of laugh you have ever heard. Cor didn't feel in the least that he was being made fun of, and indeed, he smiled a little himself, for he supposed it had been rather a silly thing to ask about a castle.

"Bless you, my boy," King Lune wiped tears of mirth from his rosy cheeks, "I think we can find room enough for her, however much she needs. Only–" with some dismay, he looked to Lucy. "I am afraid we haven't a room suitable for a young lady. There've been no ladies at court since my Lora, you know. They need . . . _things_, don't they?" He gestured helplessly. "Ladies' things."

Lucy dimpled quite deeply, and her cheeks grew pink with amusement, but she managed to restrict herself to a demure nod and the assertion that yes, indeed, young ladies did sometimes have need of ladies' things.

"Would you allow me to see to that?" she asked gently, and King Lune's relief was so transparent that it was really entertaining to behold. Lucy, though, limited herself to a promise that she would see to the necessities directly, and on that note she made her excuses to the little family. "I am sure you all have things to discuss," she explained, smiling. "Edmund is surely wondering what has become of me –if he has not eaten my share of our meal already– and if I am to arrange a young lady's home for her tomorrow I shall need all the sleep I can get!"

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Sleep, in fact, came quite easily to Lucy that night. She ate well (Edmund had not taken her share after all) and, with a full stomach and weary body, she settled gratefully into the soft, deep bed in her chamber. For all that the bed was not her own she had no trouble falling asleep, and when she awoke the next morning she felt as awake and refreshed as she could ever remember being.

King Lune was as good as his word; the moment Lucy declared herself ready, she was escorted to a pretty set of rooms set in the east wing of the little castle. These consisted of a charming sitting room, a sleeping-chamber, and a dressing-area spacious enough to see any young girl well into her womanhood. A quick inspection of these accoutrements completed, Lucy returned to the sitting room, where one window in particular had already caught her eye.

It was the sort of window you might love to have in your own room; wide and tall, with a sill broad enough to sit on if you wanted to. It was large enough that from one corner you could make out the scorching sands of the Southern desert, and from the other, the towering green woods of the North. It was, Lucy thought, the loveliest window imaginable, and she turned at once to the two maids and two footmen who had been assigned to help her in her task.

"I want cushions!" she declared. "I want the nicest cushions you can find; lovely, deep, soft ones. I want this windowsill filled with them. We'll also need silks for a canopy," she led them through to the sleeping-chamber, "and it's so tricky, not knowing the girl, but . . . I think blue, with yellow accents. Can that be done?"

"Oh, yes, your Majesty," the more eager of the two maids assured her. "That's no trouble at all; some lovely silk merchants in town, there is, and the new shipment has only just come up from the South, too, or so the head housekeeper says."

"Oh, lovely!" Lucy beamed. "Blue and yellow it is. Now, for her vanity . . ."

I won't tell you everything that happened in those rooms that day, or I am afraid you would lose interest very quickly. For Lucy, though, it was the most wonderful thing, very much like preparing a gift for somebody you dearly loved. For after hearing the shy, kind boy who had braved such dangers to warn them of their threat become positively rapturous when he spoke of the girl who had been his friend and travelling companion, Lucy felt she loved Aravis well already, and wanted nothing more than to see her home readied for her on her arrival.

It could not all be done in a day, of course; the finest seamstresses could not ready cushions, canopies, tapestries in the space of a few short hours, but Lucy felt the most important thing was to get the work well underway, so Aravis would not have long to wait until her room was her own. So the young Queen rushed to and fro, calling out measurements to the harried maids and cheerfully bossing the footmen around, having them carry off pieces of furniture she felt unsuitable for a young lady and charging them with finding prettier, more appropriate pieces.

By the time all the furniture had been arranged and suitable bedding, canopies and cushions had been procured to serve as substitutes until the real ones arrived, it was past midday. Taking pity on her helpers, Lucy chased them away with orders to eat something healthful before they toppled over. Then she turned back to the room she had spent such pains on, and found the effect satisfying.

Furniture had been altered and arranged, and canopies and cushions produced. From some forgotten corner of the castle, beautiful old tapestries had been dug up and hung all around the walls, the scenes on them well-known to Lucy; they depicted the creation of that world, a sight she herself had not witnessed but a tale she had heard told many, many times. It was a story she never tired of, and the beautiful workmanship on the hangings only increased her desire to have been there to witness the birth of the land she loved. Some tapestries showed the trees rising up, proud, young and tall; some depicted the beasts bubbling up from the ground itself, fighting free of the earth, and one showed the dawning of the sun over the young world. At the centre of it all was Aslan, embroidered in shining gold, his red mouth opened in glorious song as he brought it all to be.

The tapestries had all been cleaned before they were hung, so the colours were almost as good as new. The greens, blues and golds went very well against the stone, and they matched the silks and cushions that had been used to cosy and brighten some chairs and low benches drawn up around the little fireplace. Lucy decided that the array of cushions on the windowsill would do well until proper ones were made, and she was just in the act of setting a few books straight on the tall bookshelf when a cheery trumpeting from below announced the return of Prince Cor, and the arrival of Lady Aravis and the Talking Horses Bree and Hwin.

Since Aravis's rooms were so far away from the front gate, it is no wonder that the little party had already been welcomed by the time Lucy reached them. They were in deep conversation when she emerged; the pretty, finely-bred mare was giving a shy answer to the question that had been put to her, but broke off uncertainly at Lucy's approach. King Lune turned to welcome Lucy with a warm smile, and introduced her to Aravis with a very handsome bow.

"My dear," he beamed at a slim, dark girl, and indicated Lucy with a kindly nod of his head, "here is a loving friend of our house, and she has been seeing that your apartments are put to rights for you better than I could have done it."

The solemn girl followed King Lune's gaze to Lucy. The charming little expression on her face was one of mixed apology, gratitude and curiosity, making Lucy like her at once and prompting her to take Aravis's hands in hers.

"You'd like to come and see them, wouldn't you," she guessed, and pressed a kiss to the girl's forehead, as her mother might have done had she been there.

"Very much," Aravis confessed, and though nobody else could have known it, she looked so very shy at saying this that Cor could hardly believe it was she.

Of course, any little girl, however spoilt and arrogant she might once have been, is bound to become a little tongue-tied in the face of one so simply and clearly a Queen as Lucy. Lucy's whole face shone with her delight, and although she was rather mussed and scraped up from the chore of arranging the pretty apartments, she somehow looked all the more regal for not being bothered by it. It was simply, you see, that Aravis wanted suddenly very much for Lucy to like her, and was at the same time quite sure that Lucy could never do any such thing.

In this, of course, she was completely mistaken. Lucy at once liked Aravis just as much as the younger girl liked her, and hardly ten minutes had passed (Lucy had of course first had to be introduced to her two new subjects, and Bree and Hwin were almost as tongue-tied at meeting her as the little Calormene girl had been) before the two took themselves off into the castle to inspect Aravis's new rooms.

"They're nowhere close to done," Lucy explained, fairly dragging the girl up the stairs, "but I promise if everyone does as I've said, you'll simply love it by the time it's ready– here we are, now." She threw open the door, letting Aravis enter first.

I have told you, of course, what the room looked like in the general sense, but I do not suppose I can even begin to describe to you what it looked like to Aravis. Naturally it was quite different from what she was used to– in Calormen, houses are built low and wide to make best use of the cool earth and running water, with large, open windows flanked by tall clay urns of water to keep things from getting too hot. Nobody in Calormen ever had to put rushes on the floor to keep a room warm, nor did they need to hang tapestries or heavy, embroidered canopies to keep people from freezing in the winter. But that is not what struck Aravis.

What Aravis saw was the idea behind the room– this lovely place that was meant to be all her own, that had been set aside especially for her use and had been lovingly decorated only for her, not by slaves or servants told to do a job for a master, but with the free will, love and enthusiasm of the beaming young woman who stood watching her, waiting to see what she thought. It is no wonder, I think, that the poor girl was dreadfully choked up when she turned to look at Lucy.

"I–" she began, then faltered a little, and waited a moment before she tried again. "I like it very . . . very much," she said, and her queer, low voice was lower and huskier still. "Thank you, for– for–" but I am afraid she could not finish.

"Oh, my dear!" Lucy cried, and went at once to put her arms around the girl. She settled her on a low couch and fussed over her thoroughly before Aravis at last convinced the Queen she was quite all right, it had simply been the shock of it.

"You did all this for me," she tried to explain, feeling very awkward and shy and sounding very much like Cor as a result. "You don't even know me, and you did all of this so that I would be happy, and– and feel at home."

"Well, of course," Lucy smiled, and the very fact that she meant it –that to Lucy, when it came to caring for the comfort and ease of perfect strangers, there was nothing but an "of course" about it– finally told Aravis, as nothing else ever could, what a truly wonderful sort of home hers was going to be.

O0O0O0O

That afternoon, Aravis thought she felt quite equal to the task of going down to luncheon. Lucy had asked if she might rather have a meal sent up to her rooms so she might rest, but Aravis said no, thank you all the same. She didn't want to miss a moment of anything that happened in her new home, and she was rather determined to keep Lucy in close sight. So after she had approved Lucy's colour scheme for the silks and the Queen had sent the orders down to the market, along with the young girl's measurements and orders for woollens, linens and a dozen gowns, "just to be going on with," they freshened Aravis up as best they could with what they had, and went down to join the party gathered on the lawn.

At first it seemed all must go well. Cor and Corin were shamelessly entertaining, and King Lune was as cheery as his sons. King Edmund was very gallant to the girl he called their "little cousin from the golden Empire" (courtly compliments not coming easily to Edmund, he used this one quite a lot; he had read it in a book, and liked the sound of it. But I do not doubt he meant his niceties any less for their having been studied, and by the time conversation got around to dogs, riding and shooting, which Aravis and Edmund both enjoyed, they were already firm friends) and Lucy chattered easily away to fill up what space was left.

If all had continued in this vein it might have gone as easily as anyone could wish, but then King Lune set aside his napkin and said that they must determine what had to be done with Rabadash, and Aravis suddenly felt as if the bottom had dropped from her stomach. Rabadash, after all, was the Crown Prince of her homeland, and whether or not that means anything where you are from, it meant a great deal to Aravis. He was the man who would one day rule the Empire she had so recently called her home, so to realise she sat with the men who must judge him –the men he had betrayed– was rather a tricky thing.

It got even trickier for her when the Prince himself was brought in, and Aravis saw how dreadful he looked. She did not know, as most everybody there did, that Rabadash had been kept in comfortable quarters; looking at him, Aravis was certain he had been locked in some foul dungeon. She can hardly be blamed for imagining this, for after Lucy had left, Rabadash had stamped and cursed and shouted most of the night away, and now looked a dreadful sight; he also took it into his head to be extremely rude to King Lune, and challenged any man who dared debate with him to do so. It did nothing for his temper to see nearly every man in the court leap to his feet in willing reception of the challenge, and Aravis felt quite irrationally, unshakeably certain that each of them must also think her as dreadful as Rabadash himself, since she had come from the same land as he.

It is an awful thing, but once we have got it into our heads that everybody thinks poorly of us, it's almost impossible to stop thinking so. Aravis didn't hear what was said by the Kings or Rabadash; she only looked at her lap and felt very small and ashamed. Then, when everybody got to their feet, she thought she saw her chance; rather than looking to see what it was that they were all standing for, she took to her heels and ran across the lawn, away from the court at the banquet tables, fleeing back into the castle and, since she hadn't any idea how to get back to her rooms, coming to a teary, shaking stop shortly thereafter.

I am not certain how long she would have stood there, had not Lucy come to find her. Aravis didn't even see the Queen approach; she was sniffling too much, and feeling certain she had made the most dreadful mistake in the world to have come to Narnia. Then a light touch on her hand made her leave off these thoughts, and look up to find Lucy gazing on her with open concern.

"What–" Aravis struggled to get the words out. "What has become of him?" Surely, she thought, his head must have been struck off. But Lucy only looked very odd indeed, as people do when they are trying not to laugh.

"He has become a donkey," she said at last, and it took no small amount of effort on her part to convince Aravis that this was nothing more or less than truth– Aslan had come into their midst and made Rabadash a donkey, and the Prince was to be sent home in that form. It was such a lot to take in that Aravis felt she might cry again, and Lucy, seeing this, was quick to speak.

"My dear," she gave Aravis a handkerchief, "I am so very sorry that you saw him that way; the office he holds must still command some respect from you, and I was wrong to make you see him so ridiculous. Will you forgive me?"

This, of course, confused Aravis even more. To have the woman she had felt certain could never look on her with anything but contempt ask her pardon . . . it took her some time to tell Lucy there was nothing to forgive.

"I only thought," she mumbled, "that you might not like me, now you've seen what sort of people come from Calormen."

"Ah," Lucy twinkled, "but what if we were all to judge Archenlandish folk by the make of that man who stole your friend Cor as a baby? That would be as unjust a measure as it would to judge you by one idiotic Prince, would it not? Come, now, dear; I will take you to your room, where you may put yourself to rights and remain at your leisure, until you see quite fit to join us again."

So saying, Lucy led the girl directly to the chamber door. There Aravis thanked her, and once the Narnian queen had left, the girl from Calormen stood in the room that was hers, and struggled to understand what it was that she felt.

Aravis had always been a very practical person, and she would have taken it as a great compliment if you had told her you found her unemotional. Really, "self-absorbed" might, until very recently, have been closer to the truth. Now, though, Aravis had travelled with companions who were, for all their flaws, also much better people than she in many ways, and though she didn't know it yet, they'd had a very improving effect on her character. Diamonds, you know, only reveal their truest beauty when you have roughed them over, and gold only shines as it should when you have put it through fire, refining it, removing all impurities that would have kept it from being its best. This was what had happened with Aravis: roughed over and put through the fire, she had emerged with a respectable shine to her, and it was this new, soft part of her that was having such a time of it now.

In Calormen Aravis had been very spoilt; it was nothing to her to find rooms like this readied for her, but the woman who had prepared this room for her was not a slave or a servant, or even a lady of the court. She was a Queen, with a kingdom of her own, and yet she had been in here in the dust and the grit –for one look at Lucy's gown had told Aravis there had been, at one point, a great deal of dust and grit in this room– and she had seen to the preparing of it as if Aravis were as dear to her as a daughter. This was the queen who had apologised to Aravis for the foolishness of a Prince who had tried to kidnap Lucy's own sister, and said that they had no right to make Aravis see him degraded; she had also said it would be wrong to judge Aravis by that prince's foolishness simply because they came from the same place (a place where one person was often considered a perfectly fit representative of all his kind). It was very hard for the girl to grasp.

It was this confusion that caused a deep, dull ache in Aravis's chest, an ache that pressed on her, driving her over to the window to look on the land that the fat, jolly King had entreated her to call her home. The cushions Lucy had spread out were so inviting that Aravis found herself curling up on them like a little kitten, tucking herself into the far left corner and finding that, from this angle, she could see the distant golden sands that led to the land where she had been born.

Aravis raised one slim, brown hand and pressed it to the glass of the window to trace the golden horizon. The desert looked like an ocean, somehow; a golden sea that made Archenland and Narnia a little island unto themselves. Maybe this should have made her feel isolated and homesick, and for a moment, I suppose it did. But then she thought of Cor, and Bree and Hwin, who had promised to visit her often. She thought of the cheerful, good-hearted King who had bid her a warm and kindly welcome, and she thought of the darling little Queen who had reminded her strangely of Aravis's friend Lasaraleen–she had Las's sparkle and energy, but with a warm, generous heart in place of the Tarkheena's many vices.

These people, Aravis realised, were offering her a thing she'd never had– a place to make a home of her own choosing. They didn't want obedience or affection in return for their devotion, they simply offered what they had and took pleasure in her reception of the gifts. It was a startling concept for a girl raised in an Empire ruled by tyrants and built on the backs of slaves, and I don't doubt that it took her some time before she fully felt at home with the idea, but it was at that moment that Aravis became resolved in her own mind she would do her best to try.

She remained on the sill until the Princes burst into her room –remembering to knock only once they had the door half open– and began to describe Rabadash's transformation in such rich, delicious detail that Aravis, to her surprise, laughed aloud. Even more to her surprise she found as she laughed, the pain in her chest lessened considerably and she felt lighter than she had in ages. She graciously accepted the Princes' offer to escort her to supper, and with considerable delight she joined in the feasting and merrymaking that lasted well into the night.

It was only when she returned to her room in the wee hours of the morning that Aravis went back to the window. There, leaning her forehead against the cool glass, she looked out across that vast sea of golden sand –silvered, now, in the moonlight– and said good bye to the place that had been her home. For Aravis, as I have said, was a very practical young woman, and she didn't believe there was any point in clinging to what she had left behind when she had made up her mind to accept and love what wonderful new things she had been given.

O0O0O0O

**A.N.:** I chose not to relate Rabadash's transformation in detail, as it is already covered exquisitely in Lewis's own work, and this was getting rather long! Hope it still satisfied, and the next one will be up shortly.

Up next: Pride of Narnia, wherein people talk a great deal (but do very little else) and a family is reunited, if only for a very short time.


	28. Pride of Narnia

Pride of Narnia

O0O0O0O

If the Narnian party that had journeyed to Archenland had managed to keep their spirits up with an effort, then those who journeyed back came dangerously close to being borne away by them entirely. Jokes were traded, food was passed around as they rode (King Lune had not only feasted them handsomely before they left, he had also filled their haversacks near to bursting) and songs were sung so loudly that more than a few birds rose up in protest.

"I am so very glad," Lucy decided, beaming up at Edmund, who rode beside her. "Aren't you?"

Edmund, who might easily have teased her for her ambiguity, or even asked her to clarify at what, exactly, it was that she was so glad, did neither. Instead he smiled quite gently on the little sister who rode beside him, and inclined his head.

"Yes, Lucy," he agreed, "I am."

The Queen sighed, and smiled almost beatifically. "Rabadash is going home to Calormen," she reflected, "and I think it's quite safe to say that Susan won't be hearing from him again."

"Very safe," Edmund said dryly. "I cannot imagine he is the sort of man who would let others go to wars without him; he is not nearly humble enough."

"No," Lucy agreed, her eyes lighting with merriment, dimples appearing in her cheeks, "no, he is certainly not, is he?" She looked down at her hands a moment, then back up to her brother. "I went to see him, you know."

"Did you take him a nice carrot?" Edmund wondered, and Lucy laughed outright.

"Stop that! You're wicked, Edmund, really; I don't think we ought to laugh at him now, somehow. Not now that it's so easy to. And I didn't take him a carrot; I went before he changed."

"Before?" Some of the gaiety left Edmund's tone, and he looked down sharply. "How did you manage that? You'd have needed somebody to get you in– who?"

"You must promise not to be cross, Edmund. He did it only because I asked–"

"Corin," Edmund growled, his face darkening. "By the Lion, Lucy! I would not have thought it of you, playing on the boy's affections for you in that way."

"Affections?" Lucy's pretty face scrunched in honest bewilderment. "Edmund, you're being nonsensical; he's my dear little friend, and he was only too happy to help me simply because I asked it of him."

Edmund could not help but wonder how Lucy would take it in two or three years, when her "dear little friend" finally took it into his head to act on what both Edmund and Peter had seen in the works for some years past, but he did not voice these thoughts aloud. Instead he simply firmed his grip on the reins, and bade Lucy to continue with her tale.

"Well," she squirmed a little, "that's really it, I suppose. I went down to the gaol to speak to him. I thought . . . I thought perhaps I had better. I thought it might make things easier, somehow, if I could just talk with him, or– or let him talk."

"Make what things easier?" Edmund wondered, but Lucy said she didn't know.

"Just things," she said. "Understanding things, I suppose." Then she lowered her head. She no longer wore the little steel cap that the Dwarfsmiths had fashioned for her when first she started riding to wars; instead her hair hung quite free, and she took advantage of this, letting the golden curls drop before her face to act as a sort of screen. Edmund, who had lived all his life with sisters, recognised the signs well and spoke lightly of other things for the rest of their ride home.

O0O0O0O

Susan had not run down to the gates to meet incoming riders since she and Lucy had been girls, but today she was sorely tempted to do just that. Waiting in the throne room seemed too formal, and waiting in the Queens' sitting room seemed too reclusive. The courtyard was out, it was much too private a place, and waiting in Peter's room just seemed morbid; the physic assured her he was in no danger, and had even allowed the King short walks around his apartment once it became clear that he was not going to topple over from the sheer strain of being upright.

In the end, Susan did what she had not done since her girlhood; standing in the topmost tower, her flag and Peter's both snapping proudly in the wind, she watched for the first sign of the Narnian banner. The Raven who had come ahead of them had brought news of their victory over Rabadash, as well as the planned departure time of the party, so Susan had a pretty good idea of when to expect them. Yet this did nothing to ease the odd clamping in her chest as she waited, nor did it abate her joy when the scarlet lion topped the hill.

Faster than she could have imagined was possible, Susan sent up Edmund's flag and Lucy's. Then, after tying them in place, she flew down the stairs, through the castle and into the stable yard, just as she and Lucy had done when they saw the standard approaching with one or both brothers behind it. Years had passed since they took the thrones and in some ways it seemed they had ruled Narnia always, but there were still days when she remembered what it had been like to be a young Queen, when she had found everything so strange and new. It had been then that she and Lucy had celebrated every return, shrieking, laughing and pushing one another out of the way as they ran, desperate to welcome home the Narnian kings (Lucy had usually made it there first, since she had been very willing to pull hair and Susan had always had rather a lot of it to pull).

Now, running, slippers slapping the stone floor, scattering two Fauns and a very affronted-looking Talking Goat, Susan felt for just a moment as if it were so again. She made it to the courtyard moments before Peridan on his steady bay, and spared him the loveliest of smiles before she looked past him, to her family.

"Lucy!" she cried; Lucy answered her hail, tumbling from Cyclamen and rushing to catch Susan in a staggering embrace. Giddy, laughing and tearing up, the Queens spun around in the courtyard, greeting one another as they used to. For just a moment they looked like young girls again, and Edmund, looking on, felt a strange hitch in his chest, as if he were remembering something far away; it was not quite sweet, but not quite sad, either. Then it passed, and he was laughing too, swinging down from Irra and crossing to kiss Susan's upturned face.

"Well-met, sister," he decided, and Susan, smiling back at him, answered in kind.

"But then," Lucy frowned, looking around, "where is everyone else? I had not expected a full guard of honour, but goodness, there seems to be no one about!"

"And what in the world," Edmund demanded, staring at a very oddly-coloured pile of what looked like half-chopped firewood, "has become of our carriage?"

"Well," Susan said, some of the light slipping from her face, "I am afraid it was a sort of . . . casualty." And, slipping one arm through each of her siblings', she led them both back into the castle, explaining as she went.

"Peter!" Lucy cried, once Susan had reached that part of the tale. "But– he's not badly injured, is he? You would have sent word if he . . . wouldn't you?"

"Of course I would, silly goose," Susan said fondly. "I should have come myself if it were as bad as all that. It was rather bad at first, I understand, but he passed the night after the battle quite well, and he rested all yesterday, so today the physic said he might sit up, and even walk around the room a bit."

"Even walk around–" Lucy's eyes were as wide and round as only hers could be. "You mean to say that at first he couldn't?! Susan, that's perfectly dreadful!"

"It could have been much worse," Susan assured them both. "Really."

"Well, can we see him?" Edmund wondered. "I want to, if we can." Lucy added her pleas to this, and of course Susan, who had planned that they should do so anyway, rushed them straight up to Peter's room.

Peter was standing when they entered, his back to the door as he looked out his window over the King's forest. Beside him was the large chair Susan had caused to be pulled to the window for him, that he did not right now care to use, and beside that sat a tower of books that he did not immediately care to read. Instead he stood, and studied the land that spread out before him. Whatever thoughts that might have been in his head were his own private ones; only the faintest furrow in his brow betrayed that he was thinking anything at all.

On hearing the door open he turned at once, and though he looked a shade or two paler than was usual for him, he greeted them with a smile that was wholly Peter. Lucy very nearly forgot herself and rushed to take him in her arms, so great was her joy, but at the last minute she remembered his injuries and so contained herself with greatest effort. She made up for it by showering him with kisses, though, and Edmund's handclasp was, both brothers felt, a poor substitute for the crushing sort of hug they would normally have exchanged.

"So," Peter grimaced good-naturedly in Susan's direction, "have you been telling them what a wretched thing I am, taking such risks? She says," he addressed Lucy and Edmund both, "that she will lock me in my room, if that is what it takes to keep me here until I am fit for travel again. You must ransom me, I think, or she may well keep me here always. Such fussing! You never saw the like!"

"Of course we will ransom you," Lucy promised, "but not until you are quite well again, I'm afraid. Otherwise, Susan would lock us in here with you, for letting you out!" And the truth of it was such that all four had to laugh, and it was quite wonderful, for it felt all at once as if they had never been apart.

They made a merry little group that day. Peter was finally prevailed upon to seat himself in the chair, and the other three all settled in around him; Susan on a low bench Edmund brought over, Lucy on the ottoman that matched Peter's chair, and Edmund on the floor itself, stretching out languidly amid the rushes and saying he supposed this meant that he had to ride back North in Peter's place.

"Always cleaning up your messes, aren't I?" he scoffed, and got a book thrown at him for his wit.

"I daresay I'll be back up there myself, soon enough," Peter assured him, and Susan, sitting up in alarm, said he most certainly would not.

"You're in no condition to go galloping away up North!" she fretted, and to distract her, Lucy asked what they were going to do for the start of the Summer Festival.

"Mercy," Susan looked the very farthest thing from soothed, starting up in her seat, "that's tomorrow!"

"Yes," said Lucy, "I know. That's why I asked; they had the gathering feast just last week, you know; I went into the village for it. Goodness, Susan, don't tell me we aren't doing anything to acknowledge it; we're the Kings and Queens! It's our kingdom! It's the Summer Festival- we have to do _something_!"

"But . . ." poor Susan looked more at odds than ever, "however could we manage it? What do you expect we are to do in such short notice? Our staff is as good as reduced by half. Whatever can we possibly manage to accomplish in such a short amount of time?"

"Do you think we might have a . . . oh, I don't know," the younger Queen frowned, pursing her lips in deep contemplation. "We've had our fill of banquets, I'm sure."

"Quite," Susan agreed. "First with the tourney, then in Calormen, and . . . yes. We've had enough banquets for a very long time."

"But we must do _something_!" Lucy scrunched up her face, thinking. "I know that it's all been rather a mess lately, and we've between the four of us just trounced a whole pack of Calormenes and rather a lot of Giants as well, but really! Is that any excuse to not carry on? I mean, Susan, you're back with us now and that silly Rabadash is gone for good; Edmund and I managed not to get ourselves killed– oh, I'm sorry," at her sister's small cry of distress, "no, of course I won't say it like that again– and Peter's home, and he's alive, and that's really quite something, if you think of the size of those clubs the Giants use– oh, very well, Susan," at Susan's second small cry, "I won't speak of that just now. But really! It's not about that anyway, it's . . . well, it's what you're always calling a matter of form, isn't it? It's a tradition. We have to do _something_!"

"Oh, but should we, really? I know it's what we've always done, but surely this time . . . surely not with Peter so ill . . ." Susan said plaintively, and Peter shot her a look of such blank exasperation that Edmund promptly buried his face in his arms to muffle his laughter. "Don't you think we ought to wait?"

"What," Lucy said, since the boys seemed incapable of offering comment at that time, "until next summer? Really! It doesn't have to be something _grand_, you know; I just think it ought to be something _happy_. It needn't be a banquet; it needn't even be about food, though it seems rather impolite to get everybody celebrating and then not offer to feed them. People get so very hungry, after all."

"An odd quirk, but a fact," Peter agreed gravely, and Lucy, seated as she was at his feet, was in a perfect position to deliver a stinging slap to his knee and tell him not to patronise her so.

"What, then?" Susan asked, sounding resigned but also rather amused. "If we must do it properly, and if you don't think it need be a banquet, what shall it be?"

Lucy, seeing that this was her best chance to get Susan round to her side (and that was really all that mattered, since once you had Susan on your side, the boys knew they'd have to give in eventually) scrunched up her nose and thought as fast and hard as she knew how. All at once her face cleared, and a little smile broke out across it as she hit on an idea.

"A picnic!" she cried. "We can have a picnic, can't we? It's not anything as grand or formal as a banquet, since it's all outside and quite in the day time. We could have music, and games for the children, and just . . . well, people needn't dance at a picnic, and I think that's really an important thing to think of."

This was true; while they had suffered mercifully few fatalities, many people were still in very poor shape, and certainly not fit for dancing. Peter, very solemn, said Lucy was a dear girl to think of him in his infirmity; this naturally earned him another slap, and it occurred to Edmund, who watched the exchange, that Peter might well be so bent on provoking his little sister simply for the pleasure of having her treat him as she always did and not like he was a basket of eggs.

"A picnic," Susan said slowly, turning the idea over. "Do you know, Lucy, I rather like it. As you said, it's a matter of form; it's tradition. I'd be sorry to think we hadn't done our best to acknowledge that, especially seeing as we missed the gathering feast because– well," her cheeks turned just a little red, "we missed it."

"All the more reason to make it up to them, then," Peter decided. His voice was pitched in such a way as to easily pass over his sister's near-reference to the time spent in Calormen, and somehow that action seemed to set the tone for the rest of them; thereafter, those dark and trying days were never spoken of directly, but referred to only in the most casual and oblique of ways. It was, in effect, their gift to Susan, and their way of letting her know that not only was all forgiven, it was truly forgotten as well.

Now, her face flushed becomingly, leaning forward on the bench, Susan got just as caught up in the excitement of planning as the rest of them. A picnic is just the sort of party that has something for everyone, after all, and the fact that all four of them were there to plan and enjoy it meant that this picnic, in particular, was very dear to each of them indeed.

O0O0O0O

The best thing about a picnic, Lucy was heard to say afterward, was that it all happened outside in the sunshine, which somehow made the thing feel more like a celebration than anything anybody could ever have contrived to do indoors. As Edmund took counsel with Peter's Marshal and Susan made her rounds of the castle, welcoming home the warriors from Archenland and checking on the progress of all who had been wounded in defence of the Cair, Lucy threw herself into preparations for the celebration. It was, she found, much more in her line of things to arrange a feast of this sort; etiquette was not a leading concern at a picnic, and she took great delight in contriving amusements for the children.

The greatest problem Lucy faced was in getting word of the banquet out in time; this might have daunted her terribly, had she not remembered the lists. It was a long-held custom in Narnia to read at the castle gate a list of the names of all Narnians who had fallen in battle. This time there were rather a lot of names to read, since Narnians had been engaged in fighting in the North, in Archenland and in the Cair itself. The names of the fallen subjects were read along with lists of the numbers and names of the foe who had fallen to the Narnians, and Lucy knew that all the villagers would, as they always did, journey up the hill to the castle to hear the names called aloud in tribute.

"And so," she explained to Narrik, having intercepted him on the verge of marching out to the front gate with the list of names, "if you could just make it known that we're opening the Summer Festival here at the Cair tomorrow, we'd all appreciate it very much. It will all begin before midday, and I hope it will go on into the evening; otherwise, a dreadful lot of food will go to waste."

"It will be an honour, your Majesty," the Dwarf declared, and with Lucy at his side, he strode out to stand at the gate and give a rather stunning performance on his little trumpet as the villagers climbed the hill. The same trumpet drew several people out from inside the castle too, Susan and Edmund among them; these took their place within the main courtyard, or ranged along the parapet, but Lucy stayed where she was, beside Narrik, watching the villagers approach. Once all were assembled, Narrik held his list and addressed the crowds.

"Here ye," he declared, "the names of these foe and kin who have fallen in battle for the sake of our kingdom. Let the names be called, and let them be carried to all corners of the world. Let the names be called; let them bring honour to our kingdom, and to the rulers who grace us with their governance, mercy and wisdom." Then, consulting the first list, he began to read.

The lists were long ones, but it didn't seem to bother anybody. Everyone stood together as straight and solemn as ranks of soldiers, from the most elderly man down to the tiniest, roundest child who was just learning to stagger about, and listened with touching reverence to the names that Narrik read. Each name was then echoed by the ranks of guards, nobles and dignitaries, and then by the villagers gathered. It was a very lengthy process, but somehow nobody minded; indeed, Lucy found it, as she always did, a very fitting tribute.

Only once the calling was done did Narrik give the announcement concerning the Summer Festival, and this was met with touching enthusiasm. Lucy found herself quite swamped, and willingly gave as many details as she knew. By the time evening fell and the four reunited in Peter's chamber to compare their respective achievements, the whole village knew of the feast, and a good percentage of it had managed to tell Lucy personally of their delight.

"They're all so looking forward to it," Lucy sighed, weary with the sort of good exhaustion that accompanies the completion of a rewarding task. "The little ones, especially– their faces lit right up. It was the loveliest thing I've ever seen, I think. I promised them all more strawberries than they could stand to eat."

"That will do the trick," Peter agreed, and Edmund, alarmed, said he hoped there might be at least a few berries left over for him. Lucy did not throw a cushion at him for saying so, though it should be noted that she wanted to very much.

"Those who are fit for it will be out of bed tomorrow," Susan put in. "You wouldn't credit how cheered they were to be told there will be something like that; you were quite right, Lucy," with a nod in her sister's direction. "This was the right thing to do. It seems to have given everyone something to look forward to."

"And may they have many more such days very soon," Peter declared, prompting both girls to turn to their brothers and ask after the decisions they had made for continuing the Northern campaign.

"Edmund will take those who are fit, and ride out in three days' time," Peter said quietly. "That should give ample time to gather the provisions needed, and ready what weapons we can."

"I can set the fletchers working straightaway, if you like," Susan offered. "For surely we must have a shortage of arrows, given all that has happened."

"Surely we must," Peter agreed, and there was something nice and gentle in his smile that was a sort of thanks, as well as an acknowledgement of her offer. "The fletchers must of course be put to work, but not until tomorrow is past. Spears must be readied too –we found them uncommonly helpful in fighting the giants. Gives you a good shot upward, you know– as well as axes. We must see about sharpening as many axes as we can lay hands on; they're quite useful too."

Lucy asked at once why axes were such a particular help, and Edmund began to explain it was to help attack the Giants' feet, but at a strangled sound from Susan he thought better of it, and simply said he'd tell her later.

After that, talk finally turned from the prospect of more fighting, and even the prospect of merriment, to much more homely things. A chill settled over the castle as the sun set, so the fire was lit, and chairs (or, in Edmund's case, the rushes) were drawn close around it. Susan brought out the piece of needlework she had begun months ago, and found she couldn't quite remember what she had meant it to become. Peter asked if they mightn't have some music, so Lucy did her very best to conjure something like a tune on the little pipe she had been trying to learn to play. Her efforts were so woeful that at last she left off and, rather breathlessly, said perhaps they might have a story instead.

"Capital," Peter said quickly –too quickly– and Lucy gave him a look of mock affront. When he started to apologise, however, she broke out laughing, told him not to think her so easily slighted, and went at once to the low nook in which various books were always shelved, though Peter rarely found time to read them.

"Here," she decided, and returned to the fireside with a small red volume in hand. "This one's perfectly lovely, isn't it?"

"Is it?" Peter yawned, and settled back in his chair. "Bless me, I can't remember."

"I don't remember it, either," Edmund admitted, as Susan bent her head over her needlework, and picked at a thread. "What's it about, Lucy?"

"Well," Lucy thumbed through the pages, screwing up her face and trying to recall the details, "I think there's a Princess . . . she's stolen away, of course, and locked in a tower. There's a dragon too, I'm quite sure, and a knight. Of course the knight is gallant and bold, but he's ever so kind as well, and there are some loyal little Rabbits who help things along . . . there are swordfights, too. There are so many swordfights; it's all most thrilling. And at the very end, when the knight is cornered by the dragon and all seems lost, you would never believe it, but–"

"Don't!" Susan interrupted, laughing, her eyes kind as she looked up from her handiwork to smile at her sister. "Lucy, darling, you mustn't; you'll spoil the end."

"Oh, yes," Lucy blushed, "of course. I only wanted to know if everyone wanted to hear it."

"A captured Princess?" Edmund settled back on his rushes. "A fierce dragon, gallant knight . . . of course we want to hear it! That's the sort of things all the best adventures are made of, after all."

Peter and Susan added their reassurances to Edmund's own. "Yes, of course we want to hear it, Lucy," Susan smiled. "As Edmund says, it all sounds perfectly thrilling. Of course you must read it to us."

And so, with the firelight flickering over her brothers and sister, the heat from the flames and something from somewhere much deeper warming her nicely throughout, Lucy bent her golden head over the printed page, and began to read.

O0O0O0O

**A.N.:** Not much to say, but I do want to note that this chapter was written entirely in tribute to and in the spirit of Heather Dale's lovely song, _Call the Names_. Every time I hear it, I think of Narnia; the feeling and intent match exactly.

I also want to say that I can't believe the next chapter is the last! This chapter itself was actually very nearly the last; there's not much left to touch on, but I did tell a few people I meant to end this on Chapter 29, so I wanted to keep my word. On that note, I also want to say I am so thrilled at how many of you have seen this through. I so appreciate the feedback, pointers and completely random conversations that this has brought about; thank all of you so very much.

Up next: One Golden Afternoon, wherein what little there is left to say is said.


	29. One Golden Afternoon

One Golden Afternoon

O0O0O0O

It was, everybody agreed, a great stroke of good fortune that the first day of the Summer Festival dawned warm and sunny; it had been known, in past times, to begin with a rather grey drizzle over everything that, while perfectly acceptable if festivities were scheduled indoors, would have put rather a damper on the picnic they had planned. Today, however, seemed to have been ordered up especially for their purposes. Come sunrise it was plain to see that all would go exactly as they hoped it would. The castle was astir, people moving long, low tables out into the courtyard, setting out a few benches for the elderly and injured, should they have need of some rest, and preparing the food in the castle kitchen that would feast the court and the village through to nightfall, when the party would all make their way through the woods to the Dancing Lawn.

"You'll be in a fine temper tomorrow!" Lucy predicted, as she and Susan met in their sitting room for a brief, light breakfast before venturing down to oversee proceedings. "You know how you are when you have so little sleep."

"And yet," Susan's eyes danced just a little, "I seem to be able to tolerate myself all the same. 'Tis only you and our brothers who see fit to complain!"

"We shall keep a good berth of you, then," Lucy decided, spreading so much marmalade on the piece of toast she held that Susan had to check the pot and make sure there was enough left over for her own. "Mm, lovely; is there more tea?"

Susan passed it, and gestured to the small, covered dish at her elbow. "Kippers, Lucy?" she queried, and if there was a slight touch of irony to her voice –given that Lucy's plate was already full to overflowing– the younger Queen missed it, merely shaking her head and making a face.

"Ugh, no; horrid, bony things. Will you look to the watering table today? I would do it, except I want to set up the games for the children." Then she reached for her cup and sipped her tea, leaving Susan to bite the inside of her cheek, and say yes, she thought that sounded just fine.

By the time the Queens had finished their breakfast and made their way downstairs, they found that the lawn and the lower level of the castle were a hive of activity. They were separated quite quickly, Susan drawn off to examine the arrangement of the tables one last time before the first round of food was placed on them, and Lucy to the gates to stand with Edmund, where they were just in time to receive the first few villagers making their way up the hill.

Lucy let Edmund give a nice little speech, welcoming everybody to the celebration. It was the sort of speech Edmund gave best, straightforward, honest and to the point, and it was the sort of speech best appreciated by the villagers anyway. Of course, Lucy thought it would be hard to have found something in that speech to disagree with; Edmund held out his hands to the villagers, called them his friends and told them to make free use of the grounds and eat as much as they liked. Few people of Lucy's acquaintance would have balked at such a welcome.

None of the villagers seemed to mind; the King and Queen stood there for almost an hour, welcoming the approach of everybody, until finally Lucy said that any stragglers could certainly find their own way in, and Edmund said she was probably right. They made their way back inside to the northern lawns, now quite full of Narnians of all ages, sizes and every description, talking, laughing and making free use of the food and drink (a few of the Talking Goats and the like were grazing instead of eating from the table, but that was only to be expected, and it rather improved the look of the lawn anyway).

"If you eat one more of those," Lucy laughed, bending down to tap the strawberry-stained hand of a small boy, "you'll turn into a strawberry yourself!"

This dire prediction had a less than impressive effect. Chortling at Queen Lucy's foolishness, the little boy grabbed another strawberry from a bowl heaped with these and went toddling off in search of other delicacies. Lucy, watching him go, made a good-natured face before turning to the low, laden table and sampling a strawberry herself. They were especially sweet that summer.

"Any good?" Edmund wondered, and at Lucy's emphatic nod he helped himself to one as well. "Mmm, now that's just what– oh, hullo, that's Gurrit, from Keeling Cottage. I've been meaning to have a word with him for a while now; you'll excuse me?"

Lucy did, quite graciously, and Edmund, first grabbing up a few more strawberries, hurried off to intercept Gurrit, a stocky fellow with a goblet in one hand and a large piece of some unidentifiable meat in the other. The young Queen made her leisurely way across the lawn, pausing now and then to chat with someone or other who had claimed her attention. Everybody was in an especially fine mood, the combination of fine weather, agreeable company, lovely food and good wine doing all that was necessary to smooth over any little disputes that might have marred daily life. Lucy, walking among the people whose faces, names and histories were as familiar to her as her own, found her heart grew lighter with every step she took. There was, she thought, no better feeling in the world than this; the simple knowledge that one belonged.

O0O0O0O

Making merry, Susan decided, as she sat on a bench with several other ladies of the court and village gathered around her, was easiest when one didn't have to put any effort into it. It had been so long since she had smiled and laughed like this –simply because she _wanted_ to– at such length, that for the first few minutes it had seemed almost foreign to her. Now, replying to one teasing comment made by a plump, motherly Talking Hen, Susan found that she no longer felt out of her element, but completely at her ease.

"And what's this I hear," she turned gracefully from the Hen to address one shy village girl who seemed to have grown up almost overnight, "about you and Rab the joiner's son? Am I to credit that bit of news?"

Blushing fiercely, the girl confessed that yes, she was to be a bride before the Summer Festival was over, and Susan, delighted, clasped the girl's hands in hers and wished her every joy. A dowry, she thought, should probably be arranged. The girl's father made his living well but he had three other daughters as well, and any help that could be offered . . . pleased at the thought, Susan turned to hear one of her Ladies make a self-deprecating jest about her own prospects, and missed the approach of her older brother –slow and stilted though it was– until he was nearly in their midst.

"Ladies," Peter smiled, and even managed a small bow, despite the layers of bandages that Susan had insisted he adopt under his tunic, "by your courtesy, I must deprive you of one of your number. I am told that a celebration such as this is not considered official until it has been officially opened, and as she was the one who explained this point to me so thoroughly, I feel I can think of none better to perform that service than my sister. You will forgive me for taking her away?"

They promised they would forgive him if he would oblige every one of them with a dance that night on the Lawn, and Peter at once promised he should outlast all of them. Leaving everybody blushing and giggling furiously over this vow, he caught Susan's hand in his own, placed it firmly on his arm and led her away.

"I don't recall your asking me to open the Festival," she observed, and Peter said he was pleased to hear it, as he didn't like to think of her as the sort to imagine things.

"It only occurred to me just now," he said mildly. "I thought the idea rather inspired."

"You would," Susan said tartly, and at hearing the Queen sound so herself again, Peter favoured her with a wide grin.

"You won't abandon me to do the thing myself, surely," he said, and Susan admitted that no, she could never. "Very well, then. It won't take more than a minute; just something nice and fitting to the occasion. You always manage that sort of thing best of all of us, anyhow, and I daresay they'd all much rather hear it from you. You make it _look_ so much nicer."

Susan very much wanted to call him on this blatant bit of flattery, and would certainly have done so, too, had they not by that point reached the area that had been cleared and raised for the express purpose of giving little speeches. Even then she was turning to face Peter, the expression on her face promising a light reprimand, at least; all of her siblings knew that look. Peter, who had briefly feared he would never get to see it again, covered his rush of relief with a truly wicked smile. Then he caught his sister about the waist and swept her easily up onto the little dais, placing her squarely in view of everybody on the lawn and cutting off whatever rebuke she had been about to deliver.

"I," she breathed warningly, "will not forget this, Peter."

"Nor will I," he grinned, and for a moment he looked almost impossibly like Edmund in one of his most mischievous moods. Then he looked over the crowd, who saw Susan where she stood, and gradually fell silent to hear what she said.

Susan, of course, had no speech prepared, but unlike Edmund, who did best with the straightforward and direct simply because courtly things, unless he learned them from books, made him dreadfully uneasy, Susan was very good at speechmaking. She had a clear, easy voice, and a talent for spinning things out of thin air. This gift did not fail her now, as she twitched her skirts to settle them more prettily about her feet, drew her shoulders back and, with a warm smile for everyone before her, lifted her hands just a trifle to address them.

"My friends," she smiled, "we bid you a warm and loving welcome this morning, and ask that you know our hearts, as well as our home, are opened to you this day. I speak not only for myself but for my good brothers and dear sister when I say to you that it is a pleasure to see you here, a delight to call you our friends and kinsmen, and my privilege to announce that, with your witness and your goodwill, the Summer Festival is hereby officially begun."

At her side, Peter raised a goblet –where he had grabbed it from, Susan didn't have the slightest idea– which was the cue for everybody who held one to do the same, amid rousing cheers and general shout of good nature, high spirit and, Susan thought, perhaps an excessive eagerness to dip into the lovely summer wine that had been served. Amid the applause she stepped down from the dais and, narrowing her eyes at her beaming brother in mock-irritation, said,

"_That_ was unworthy of you, Peter!"

"But," he protested, "it was such fun. And you did a fine job, Su, really!"

"All the same," sniffed Susan, "I hope you'll understand why I must do _this_." And on 'this' she reached out and slapped Peter's cup from his hand, so that the wine inside splashed all across the front of his tunic.

"Susan!" Peter was laughing and disbelieving, and Susan, studying the mess she had made, found she had to smile with some satisfaction. His tunic was crimson, and hid the stain nicely, but it was undeniably very wet. "Susan, I can't go about like _this_, looking and smelling like I took a tumble into a vat of—"

"Oh, very well," it was Susan's turn to smirk, "we'll hide you until it dries. Come on, then." And, still rather pleased with herself, she caught hold of Peter's hand and tugged him through a narrow archway tucked just behind the little platform onto which Peter had hoisted her. "But just you remember, your Majesty, you brought this on yourself!"

O0O0O0O

It took Lucy some time to realise that nobody had seen her sister after Susan had given the speech –and really, the fact that Susan had given the speech at all would have been enough to strike Lucy dumb for a time anyhow. Susan was excellent at speechmaking, but she really didn't enjoy it all that much– and it took her quite some time more before she found somebody who had seen where Susan went. At the direction of a bright-eyed, strawberry-smeared village lad, she ducked through the narrow arch and followed a long, dark corridor that curved along the outside of the castle, opening up onto the lawn once more.

This lawn, however, Lucy saw as she emerged, was the Eastern lawn, and quite empty of merrymakers. It was quite separate from the northwestern lawn occupied by partygoers, and the small space –the same stretch of lawn on which the four had been gathered when Rabadash first arrived, those long weeks before– was quite devoid of occupants, save for Peter and Susan. Peter was lying on his back on the grass, apparently berating his sister at great length and volume. Susan, seated some distance away, her hands clasped in her lap and looking as prim as she knew how, said nothing. Lucy, confused but intrigued, started across the lawn to join them.

"What's all this, then?" she asked, and was immediately treated to a lengthy and irate explanation from Peter, who, she saw, didn't really seem angry at all. To the contrary, he seemed to be almost content with his lot, flat on his back, looking up at the sun, waiting for his doublet to dry out. To say that Susan looked anything less than supremely satisfied with herself would have been a grievous falsehood as well.

"Sit with us," she invited her sister, and Lucy, who could think of no objection and in fact rather felt like doing so, settled down beside her. "Is everything going well out there?"

"Oh, yes," Lucy beamed, tipping her face up to catch the sun as well, "everyone is having a marvellous time. They liked your speech, too," she added, and Peter bobbed upright.

"Hah!" he crowed, and Susan, not even glancing at him, gave him a firm push and sent him back down again.

"You," she said sternly, "are drying." Then she addressed Lucy again, asking after one village family in particular, and Lucy's answer was of such length and detail that she was only just finishing it when Edmund, too, appeared in the arch of the same little tunnel that the other three had used, and, on sighting his family, gave a good-natured shout.

"What sort of hosts are you lot, then?" he wondered, ambling over to grin down at them. Peter again gave the explanation of what had brought him there, sitting up to do so. His doublet was now nearly dry, so Susan did not push him back over as she had before. Instead she said she supposed they had better prepare to go back to the northwest lawn, but made no move to do so. Edmund, indeed, dropped easily to the ground as well, joining them.

"Oh, no rush," he decided, "things are well in hand, over there. People are having a marvellous time; if this keeps on until we get to the Dancing Lawns tonight, we'll have given everybody something to talk about for a year to come."

"What a nice thought," Lucy sighed, and found, to her surprise, that she was rather sleepy; the sun was nearing its midday height, and the warmth was making her terribly drowsy. Lying back, she stretched out on the grass and spread her arms. "Mm, lovely."

"Don't nod off, now!" Susan scolded, but even as she said this, Edmund settled down on his side, propping his head up on one hand and poking Lucy with the other (she poked him back, of course) and Peter leaned back on both his hands with a smile, watching them.

"A few minutes' rest won't hurt anyone, Susan," he decided. "Indeed, if I'm to dance with that whole lot of ladies tonight, I could do with a bit of a breather." And Susan had to concede the wisdom of his rationale.

"It really is a lovely day," she sighed, and tipped her face up as well, studying the sky. "A lovely day, and a lovely summer . . . but now, of course, it's half over, isn't it?"

"Halfway to autumn," Lucy agreed, wiggling a bit where she lay in the grass. "Lovely autumn, with the leaves so pretty, and the feasts and hunts . . . shall we take the new horses, do you think?"

"I don't see why not," it was Edmund, reflecting on the suggestion. "It would be a much better place to test their mettle for the wars, certainly; if they don't balk at the blood of a few beasts, we may try them later for battle. But of course," he concluded, "I may not be back by that time, anyhow."

"Oh," Lucy said, a shadow passing over her face, "I forgot about the Giants . . . well, you shall simply have to trounce the lot of them and come home in time for the hunts, is all." And Edmund, quite gravely, said of course she was perfectly right, and he should have thought of it himself. Lucy poked him.

"As long as you're home by Christmas, Ed," Peter decided, smiling, and Edmund said well, it was nice to know one was so wanted!

"I'll do my best," he promised, and all fell silent then, as if by some unspoken agreement, and fell into their own private reflections.

Susan, seated as she was, was in the best position to observe all of them, and did so with quiet contemplation. Peter, settled back on his hands as he was, was in a posture more relaxed than many were privileged to see in their High King. His face lined with laughter, he watched their brother and sister with a sort of devoted fascination that warmed Susan in a way the sun never could.

She, too, enjoyed watching the younger pair, Edmund reclining on his side like a lean, lazy cat in the sun, taking amused little jabs at Lucy from time to time, tweaking her skirt, poking her side, or plucking a daisy to let it fall on the stomach of her kirtle. Lucy had retaliated for some time, but now she had given up doing so and simply stretched out on the grass, her eyes shut, her face a sunlit study in blissful contemplation.

It was so precious, Susan thought, this one golden moment, made all the more so for how fleeting she knew it to be. Soon, she knew, it would all disappear again; Edmund would ride North, and they would be left behind to worry about him. There would be concern over the harvest if it did not yield enough, and they would be anxious for the food stores if they could not put enough by for winter. There would be envoys to come, and journeys to make, treaties to sign and ratify, disputes to settle . . . wars to fight . . . life would go on.

But Susan, sitting as she was, watching the family that was dearer to her than anything she had ever known, found she could not bring herself to worry about it. Life would go on; life, after all, always did. It was the very nature of it. _And I_, Susan thought, _I will be here to see it_. And that, she decided, was more than enough.

O0O0O0O

O0O0O0O

**A.N.:** And that's everything!

To all who have reviewed so faithfully over the past sixteen months, thank you for taking the time to leave your suggestions, opinions and the like. There were times when the lurkers outnumbered you thirty to one, but even when you took back the edge (you are now outnumbered a paltry ten to one) I loved you no less!

Today not only marks the end of this fic but also the beginning of my next. _Worlds in Dream_ will be considerably shorter than this, but then, that means it will be done all the sooner! The first chapter is up, and I do hope you enjoy.

Finally, of course I have no claim over CS Lewis's lovely _Chronicles of Narnia_, no matter how often I have read the covers off them. This story was written purely for pleasure and as a thirteenth birthday gift for a cousin . . . who is now nearly fourteen and a half. Sorry about that, Erin; clearly, my planning skills want some improvement.

Again, thank you all so very much.


End file.
